Never Touch the Ground
by get-higher
Summary: She just looks at you. She's staring at your mouth like she's measuring the distance stretched between your lips. But you have rules about this sort of thing: never on the lips; only fingers; no numbers; no names. And she makes you want to break your own rules.
1. Chapter 1

Currently beta-less with a penchant for poorly placed commas and run on sentences.

Hint, nudge, hint.

* * *

You're tired.

So, so fucking tired.

These 80 hour work weeks are killing you. So much, to the point where when you finally do get a day off, you're spending a majority of it catching up on laundry and sleep. Mostly sleep. Not that you don't have a lot of laundry — there's plenty of that; it's just depressing when all you seem to wear these days are sea-foam green scrubs. In fact, you're quite certain that there is a special place in hell where the walls are painted that off green color. You've seen it in your nightmares.

But all you really want is sound, dreamless sleep; the kind where when you wake up, you can't remember where you are.

Instead, you're sitting in some small, noisy pub, peeling the label off your bottle of Bud Light, trying to figure out how Quinn Fabray coerced you into leaving the house on your first night off in sixteen days.

You don't even like Bud Light.

But again, crappy beer seems to be a theme with this place. You take what you can get.

"Santana Lopez, I know you're not going to just sit there all night," Quinn grumbles, grabbing your shoulders from behind. "It's St. Patrick's Day; have some fun." The next thing you know, she's in front of you, throwing a pair of green beads around your neck and tugging brusquely, inching you off your bar stool. You groan as she continually moves back, bringing you with her, forcing you flat on your feet.

One thing you've learned about your best friend is that she almost always gets what she wants, and at the moment, you don't have the energy to argue with her. Besides, it's already quite evident what she's trying to do here — get you out of the house, force feed you festive Irish food and fill you up with booze. And even when she places a plastic green hat on your head and pulls you by the hand further into the crowd, you don't fight it.

The edges of your focus start feeling fuzzy after about three beers. You reminisce over a time when you were better capable of handling alcohol — mainly in your undergrad years when there was time to yourself. After med school, it became too much and you couldn't balance everything; your social life was the first thing to fall through the cracks. Now, in your second year residency, you wish you could relive some of those prior moments again just to bask in the freedom.

It's funny, because the brewed warmth traveling down the back of your throat tastes oddly familiar to that.

When Quinn hears a song she's fond of, she grabs a fistful of your top and strings you along, making you move your hips to the beat. Her thigh slips between yours and she grabs your shoulder as leverage to properly grind against you. You're rewarded with wistful stares and weighty glances. It's not surprising — why wouldn't people look? You're both fucking hot. If there's one thing you've always had going for you, it's definitely that.

You carry on. Besides, you like dancing.

An hour and eight beers later, you feel infinite. Better than okay. Maybe even confident enough to walk up to the cute blonde that just got done putting on a dance spectacle across the room. She's nothing short of fucking adorable standing there, hips leaned against the bar, donning distressed blue jeans and a "Kiss Me, I'm Irish" shirt. Long blonde, slightly disheveled hair threatens to fall from her bun. You'll even admit that she has the brightest eyes you've ever seen; almost translucent, but with the lightest hint of blue, demanding your attention. When her gaze manages to find you through the crowd and her eyes hold yours, you watch the corners of her lips curl up. The gesture seems so entirely unprovoked, so genuine that it makes you feel like it was just for you — and it's all the reassurance you need.

You don't answer when Quinn asks you where you're going. You don't even bother taking the stupid ass plastic hat off your head as you put your feet in motion, despite being positively aware it makes you look like an idiot. You think it's because of the unadulterated smile the blonde keeps bestowing upon you; it tells you she may find it endearing, and if you're being perfectly honest, part of you leaves it on purposefully.

Because you really want to be right.

Her eyes are on you again as you get closer. You can feel the softness in them, the kindness, the effortlessness in her movements.

You can tell just by the way she smiles that she's too good for you.

Then again, most women are. You tend to treat them awful. It's never been on purpose, you just have zero time for a girlfriend. Hell, you have zero time for yourself.

But you're already ahead of yourself.

On the barstool adjacent to hers, you lean your hip against the seat and rest your elbows on the counter, perhaps to give the illusion you're just trying to order another drink. Her eyes flicker over to you and slowly scan up and down, observing the provocative length of your tight dress, moving and settling over your skin like she's filing notions about who you are in the back of her mind. The fact that she is looking at you so deliberately, without the slightest bit of diffidence makes your stomach flutter.

It's then that you think you might get your wish.

"Hi," she offers with a voice so warm, you want to wrap yourself up in it.

"Hi," you swallow back, trying to make sure your words come out evenly.

Up close, you notice she isn't as tall as you had originally suspected; there's only about a four inch height differential between the two of you. You think maybe the alcohol in your system has thrown off your perceptivity, but when you look down again and notice muscular thighs taut against those tight jeans, and you realize just how very long her legs actually are, and...

"I like your hat," she grins.

A soft chuckle escapes your lips and you pull the silly hat off your head playfully, as if to examine it while giving her the widest of smirks. "Really?" You ask timidly, maybe a little less confident than you would have liked it to be.

Her smile continues throughout a nod.

"Well, that's good, because I think it might look better on you," you say while twirling the brim between your fingers. Slowly, you move your hand forward and set the light plastic hat gently over her head. You laugh because it's completely crooked, yet she still manages to look pathetically cute.

"Thanks," she beams.

"It matches your shirt," you tell her, making sure the tone you use is traced with flirtatious purpose. You've done this dance enough times with enough women to know the difference, so the last thing you want to do is misconstrue your intentions.

Your intention is to see her fully and completely naked.

"It does, but now I feel bad. Lord Tubbington is going to be super jealous. I knew I should've got him a hat, but green isn't his color. I think it makes him self conscious."

You raise a questioning eyebrow at that.

"Who the hell is Lord Tubbington?" You dare ask.

"The best feline of all felines."

You knit your eyebrows together and quizzically ask: "So...do you dress your cat up for all holidays, or just St. Patrick's Day?" She blushes slightly.

"He pretty much likes all clothes on all occasions. Except this one. And Eskimo coats. The fuzzy collar tickles his whiskers."

Her proud smile carries on, and you're unsure how to react; there's something about the tone of her voice, or the way she runs the tip of her finger across the rim of her cup that won't allow you to dislike anything about her. You accept this predetermined fate and fall in sync with her movements, drinking slowly on your barstool.

Deciding to steer away from the current conversation and move forward with a new one, you ask: "So what brings you out on this lovely holiday?" The edge of her plastic cup is finding the crest of her lips just as the words leave your mouth, prompting her to hold up one finger to keep your attention.

Then she answers "Just hanging out," after swallowing a gulp of what smells like Bacardi, using the back of her hand to wipe away any remnants. Her eyes never leave yours, and it just further encourages you.

"Nice. Do you have plans after...hanging out?"

You're not usually this forward. Under normal circumstances, you would still be making pointless conversation, maybe asking her about her day, fulfilling that innate need to be wooed. But you're wasted — more so than you've been in a long time, and its effecting your inhibitions.

"I'm not sure," she answers clear cut and concise, as if you haven't phased her in the least. You eye her curiously, looking for the change in demeanor, but it never comes.

Her lack of reaction presents the perfect opportunity for you to be slightly more bold. For that reason, you move just a little closer; your feet shuffle, you lean forward and allow your lips to linger dangerously close to her ear. Wanting to take a moment to indulge in the proximity, you still yourself before letting out a soft exhale and whispering against her skin, "Would you like plans?"

She raises an eyebrow in your direction as you pull back. There is no fear in her eyes, only interest as your gaze settles on her again. You notice the way her thighs flex when she crosses her calf over her knee, and an irrefutable urge to feel those legs wrapped around your waist suddenly becomes the focus of your thoughts.

She takes notice in your unabashed noticing.

But she doesn't make you feel masochist when she looks at you. Rather, she eyes you intently like she wants you to acknowledge her knowing; like she just needs you to own it. And you decide right then that you like the way she looks at you.

"It depends," she answers after what seems like an eternity.

"...On?" Your voice trails, hopeful, eager.

"Lots of stuff..." You take the time to study her lips as she speaks — their shape, their mass, the way the flesh shifts on cupids bow when she articulates certain words.

You bend your leg and unconsciously feel the edge of your high-heel touch the back of her calf. As if you're daring her to move, you leave it there, letting your eyes silently ask the question you've been wanting to ask for the last twenty minutes —

_Do you want to fuck me?_

She swallows thickly and runs her tongue between her lips, wetting them.

You move so your ass is on the edge of the seat and your knees are touching. The ragged material of her denim jeans scratches against your smooth legs, invading your personal space, restraining your senses.

Then you feel her wordless answer in the way she leans in a little closer, the way she shifts so your shoulders are pressed a little more harshly together. Her warm breath expels against the spot just under your ear, smelling faintly of cola and sweet rum, and it makes you want to steal the taste from her mouth.

_Yes._

Letting the alcohol propel your movements, you bring the tip of your finger across her knee and trace patterns through the torn fabric of her jeans. Her body tenses and you can hear the faintest, shakiest of breaths leave from between her lips.

_Yes._

You graze her cheek with your own, and then whisper, "I'd really like to go somewhere with you," in her ear.

And after she momentarily pauses, she finally says, "okay."

/

Albeit March, it's still fucking cold outside. You shiver and rub your hands together, bringing them to your lips to fight off the chill numbing your fingers. Out of the corner of your eye, you see the bright pink tip of her nose as you cross the street, her breath making little clouds amid the night air.

She feels your gaze right away, notices your eyes lingering on her face, and again, you find yourself rewarded with that smile.

You're still not sick of it yet.

Together, you cross two blocks through downtown Cleveland and find a decent hotel. You don't even give her the opportunity to try paying the bill. Instead, you watch from the lobby counter as she shuffles her feet and adjusts the green hat she still has on her head, her poor nose running all the while.

You grab her by the hand and lead her to the room, and once you're inside, you notice the smile that was so previously evident on her face has now diminished.

"Are you okay?" You ask, closing the door behind you. "We don't have to do this," you remind her.

"No, it's not that. It's just...I can't feel my nose," she explains.

A light, involuntary chuckle comes from your mouth. "Oh."

You take a few small steps forward and plant your hands on her hip, pulling her to you. She watches closely as you lean in, closing the gap until you're cheek to cheek. Soft, blonde strands of her hair fall forward, and you breathe in the smell of clean lilac as they tickle your face. The tip of her hot nose touches your own, prompting you to smile into her skin as you hold it there.

It's a strange act of intimacy you're not used to.

"Better?" You ask quietly after a moment.

Her fingers dig into your sides, and because you can no longer stop yourself, you press your lips gently against the warmth of her jaw. You feel the intake of her breath momentarily as her fingers grip you tighter. Hips fall heavy against yours, but you don't complain; rather, you support the extra weight pressed to your side and greedily suck at the flesh near her collarbone, eliciting the faintest of whimpers.

Before you can question it, she's inching you towards the bed and you feel the back of your knees hitting the edge of the mattress. Her lips are on that spot just under your ear, slowly trailing across your jawbone, dangerously close to your lips and...

She just looks at you. She's staring at your mouth, like she's measuring the distance stretched between your lips.

But you have rules about this sort of thing;

_Never on the lips;_

_only fingers;_

_No phone numbers._

_No names._

Her eyes are flickering and you can feel the soft gust or her breath on your chin. An internal battle with yourself begins as she leans forward, weakening your resolve. When she seeks you with her warm and glistening mouth, you think it's perhaps the alcohol that makes you falter; because you're tilting your head and arching into her, welcoming the softness. Your lips line perfectly as you press and part, hot breaths dissolving into one another's. Then her tongue finds yours, brushing them together, searching and lightly sucking, leaving your body to moves on its own volition. Demandingly, you pull her further against you.

Unconsciously, you moan.

Because you forgot how good this can be.

And she kisses you harder.

Teeth sink into the flesh of your bottom lip. A brusque stroke of her tongue finds refuge inside of your mouth again. Breasts are pressed tightly against your upper body, threatening to send you into vertigo. And when you feel her hands slowly sliding down your back and stopping on the curve of your ass to take a strong squeeze, you rock your hips into her to show your appreciation.

You really like the way her hands move — confident, yet gentle; authoritative while asking for permission. It's like she has perfect balance, perfect maturity in every movement.

You find it incredibly sexy.

She stands before you, legs apart, staring at you in an enticing way. Her fingers find the hem of her shirt and she pulls it over her head, letting it hit the floor behind her. Among the dim light you skim your eyes over the exposed skin. You bask in the sight of her; the tight and taut, the hard and soft. Silently, you lick your lips in anticipation.

She leans down to kiss you again, and you use the opportunity to run the palm of your hands across the expanse of her newly revealed flesh. You feel a shudder beneath your fingertips as you make a path up her back before settling on fabric, unhooking each clasp carefully.

When it comes loose, you want tug the bra by the straps, force it to fall away and whip it across the room. You know it's the only thing standing in the way of what you want; but you remain patient. You let her peel it away gradually, and upon revelation, you stare. Your hands linger near her abdomen, fingers twitching, desperate to move. Those kind eyes find yours and tell you it's okay. So you lick your lips and bring your face to the left breast, ghosting over the small, pert nipple. Slowly, you move, and she squeezes her eyes shut and lets out a breath when you gently flicker your tongue over the peak.

Your right hand makes its way up as well, finding the other, rolling the tip of her nipple between your thumb and forefinger. Her palms are flat on the bed as she leans further into your mouth, so that every time a soft whimper escapes from her lips it lands right above your ear. The sounds cloud your thoughts and engenders a wave of heat that rocks your centre, shaking the crux of you.

You don't think you've ever heard anything more sexy.

Her skin is like fire. You grab her by the belt loop of her jeans and scoot further back to the middle of the bed, bringing her with you. When you look up, she's straddling your thighs, staring down at you with utter reverence, daring your next move.

Slowly, your thumb slips open the button of her jeans.

The zipper pops quickly too, and they're off in a flash, tossed into the distance. You bite your lip to keep yourself from laughing when you glance down at her white cotton panties with a purple waistband, patterned with cartoon whales. Her face flushes when she follows your eyes and finds your glance, but you offer the softest of smiles, trying to reassure her with it.

She's really, really fucking cute.

You flip her on her back and cover her body with yours. Then, with dexterous fingers slipping past the elastic, you reassure her again. You find that spot at the apex of her thighs, brushing past the soft trail of fine hairs, delving into the wetness. She closes her eyes, smacks her lips together and grips a fistful of sheets when three nimble fingers venture deep down to where they need to be.

You feel an intake of her breath.

Wet warmth envelopes your hand and you push farther, dig deeper. With a sharp curl of your fingers, you feel the tips burn hot, trying to find that high place. You don't move in and out — you hold them there, rocking, searching for clues, for a cry or a whisper into the darkness.

She tells you when you're there.

You lean further again, into that spot, and rest your cheek against the flat of her stomach, planting soft kisses with sticky lips. Her fingers find purchase in your hair while yours move deftly inside of her. And even though they're so very numb, you follow her stifled cries and desperate pleas when one leg hooks around your waist. The shift in position only allows you to dive deeper, possibly make her climb higher, and you can tell by the way the sheets are tugging beneath you that her heel is digging into the mattress. She's almost there. You're also quite certain that if she knew your name, it would be falling from her lips right now, an infinite number of times.

You kind of wish she knew it.

You imagine those three syllables and her voice.

Ugh.

Then you feel it — muscles clench, reckless pants fill the room. Her head falls back and the last thrust allows you gather and catch her through the wave. Her legs are locked around you. Her body stills. You wait until your heartbeats slow, and with tired limbs, you allow your weight to fall against her side. Her breaths are shallow, and through the darkness, your eyes trace the curve of her jawline.

She catches you staring.

It only takes a moment.

In one swift motion, she's on you, taking claim of your body.

Unbridled fingers pull at the bottom of your dress and shamelessly lift if from your frame. Without the barrier, her fingers are splayed everywhere — across your abdomen, your thighs, the flesh of your breasts not covered by your bra.

But in a flicker of a notion, that's gone too.

And her lips are gently lingering on your shoulders and trailing across your clavicle. Hands previously placed on your hips are traveling in an upward motion, only to land on the curve of your breast. As the tips of her fingers tug gently on the nipple, air stops flowing through your lungs.

You have to remind yourself to breathe.

But the sensations traveling through your body are too fucking good. And her lips are wrapped around you, and the tip or her tongue is swirling the peak of your breast, and you're so lost you forget you exist.

The fingers fluttering against your inner thigh remind you just how very alive you are.

And then she's falling to her knees, bringing her head down, ready to travel between your legs. You quiver at the thought, but you've already broken one rule today; you don't need another. So you grab her by the wrists and pull her back to your level, holding her gaze, telling her what you want.

"Just...just fuck me," you request.

If she's disappointed, her eyes don't show it. They flicker. She acquiesces.

Then those soft hands are traveling down your body, fingers fumbling at your entrance, teasing the folds, tracing them with glistening tips. You hold your breath, and in one swift motion, she's inside of you, knuckles deep. It isn't until you squeeze your eyes shut and drag your nails across her shoulders that you can finally exhale again.

You can't count how many fingers are inside of you, but you can feel the depths in which their taking you. You throw your head back and rise your hips to the occasion, beckoning her to thrust harder. Sensing your challenge, the push and pull being exerted comes with a little more force, and you know at that point — quite simply — she's fucking you senseless.

You marvel in it.

There is a wetness between your legs. It's prevalent. Maybe even a little ashamedly so; but you don't dare ask her to stop. Rather, you grab a fistful of her hair in encouragement, because you want her to know just how much you love this.

You love fucking and being fucked.

Especially by her.

And you love the way in which she's doing so — quick, hard and unhindered. It's brought you to the brink and you're close — so close; with the coil in your abdomen, the quick drum of your heart, the slide of slickness between your legs. It builds and begs, like the elongated wait for spring, and you close your eyes to savor it. It's descending. And when you feel the flick of her thumb against your clit, your heart flutters and your body sinks further. Like drowning. But it's good, so you let it take you under. And for a moment, you're lost in the parallels.

You search for breath.

You wait.

And then it returns to you.

Looking up, you find those kind eyes and become aware of reality again. You clutch her wrists and feel her pulse. Using the pad of your thumb, you wipe the sweat from her brow. She looks at you again, and you smile silently in appreciation.

Her eyes are heavy and you know she's exhausted. As if to further reiterate the fact, she collapses on top of you, with one long leg lazily thrown over yours. Her eyes flutter closed, and the only reason you know she's awake are the soft kisses her lips are planting near your bellybutton.

Grabbing her chin, you steal another kiss from her lips.

She grins at you sluggishly and falls back against you. Steadily, you feel the rhythmic beat of her heart.

You're seriously contemplating on breaking another rule.

But you're too tired to move and she's too cute to interrupt; so you lay there, threading your fingers gently through her hair, watching the steady rise and fall of her chest. You don't want to fall asleep just yet, though. You just want to touch her a little longer, nuzzle into her neck just a little deeper, but you can feel it. You're drifting...

/

You wake to a persistent ache in the back of your legs and a gentle throb in your skull. The sheets are tousled. A shiver hits your spine in realization of the blankets torn off you, lying on the floor next to the bed. That's when you vaguely remember the prior evening, and a particularly attractive blonde...

But the other side of the bed is empty.


	2. Chapter 2

You're staring at the inside of your locker door, just trying to give yourself a minute to collect your thoughts. You blink. You sigh. A silent calm spreads through your body because you're by yourself, and for a moment, you avoid the constant trepidation warring your mind. Sometimes it helps when you flick your eyes over the heavily bent, many-times-taped photo of you and Quinn hanging from the inside of the door, or reread the worn letter right below it that your Abuela sent when you got accepted into medical school.

But right now, when you want to do nothing more than push Will Schuester in front of moving traffic, you think it might not be enough. You're worried you may still go out there and wrap your hands around his pompous fucking neck.

Leaning your forehead against the cool metal, you inhale deeply and count to ten. You stare down at your scuffed white Nikes and let your eyes trace the pattern of the discolored laces before you lift them back to that rotation schedule. With a valiant effort, you remind yourself it's not worth it. You only have two more days left in the E.R, and then you're moving to transplant, which likely means no more 80-hour work weeks.

And most importantly, no more Will Schuester.

When you originally got accepted into med school, you thought that was it; you weren't going to have to find a minimum-wage job and put up with unprofessional, stupid dickwads for the rest of your life.

What you soon learned is that being educated doesn't necessarily allow you to negate such assholes. Even once you move up in the world, the only real difference is that the people disrespecting you are more intelligent and more highly paid, meaning that when they insult you, there's an extra syllable and nicer shoes involved.

The thing is—you're exhausted. Maybe a little bitter as well. Because even though you're really fucking good at what you do, you know how to be humble. You also know how to be a bitch and go all Lima Heights on people too, which is why you have to get your shit together right now. You don't want to be that girl—the one who fucks up everything she's ever worked for because she doesn't know how to keep her mouth shut.

It's times like these when you really ask yourself why you couldn't just settle for being a primary care physician, why you insisted on surgical practice. At this point, you'd be almost done, rather than going through another year of residency and another two of fellowship practice.

The things we do for pride.

Perhaps that's not entirely it. You've always had high standards for yourself. You know what you're capable of, and you like to test your limits. That's how you graduated in the top percentile of your medical school, aced your boards, and landed yourself into a prestigious hospital.

Your drive is insatiable.

Your want is voracious.

And you're not willing to give that up just because you're a little bit irritable and tired.

The entry door creeping open forces you to snap your head up, shaking you a bit, and you begin to smooth out the front of your scrubs with your hands as the clerk peers her head in. "Dr. Lopez?" she asks in a soft voice, almost like she's afraid to bother you.

"Yes?"

"Dr. Schuester is looking for you," she relays.

"I'll be out in just a moment. Thanks."

With that, she timidly slips away and the door clicks shut behind her, and you take one more deep breath before you head out again.

* * *

"Lopez, so glad you could join us," Schuester voices with implication, like you've been gone for an elongated period of time (even though it was only five minutes); but you hold your tongue. He does a myriad of things that piss you off, and you're not even going to worry anymore about the fact that he has never once addressed you with the proper pronoun—the one that your medical degree and eight years of education says you rightly deserve.

You dismiss these thoughts and walk further into the examining room. "What do we have here, sir?" you ask in the best professional tone you can muster, glancing over at the African-American woman who's laying in bed, clutching her chest. Sheer discomfort is evident in her face.

Will eyes you for a moment before giving you a wry smile, and then says: "Mid-sternum crushing chest pain. Do you know how to properly assess this?"

You nod confidently. "Of course," you state, already gathering supplies and calling for Mercedes, the nurse assistant. As soon as she comes into view, you ask her to get you the E.K.G machine. The test is standard practice in this scenario.

But Schuester clearly isn't convinced in your abilities because he starts on you again nearly a moment later. "What is the leading diagnosis that brings a patient into the E.R with chest pain?"

You answer him without a second of delay. "Heart attack, acid reflux, anxiety disorders, or a panic attack."

"Good. What else can we gather in this scenario?"

"I'm not sure I understand what you're asking, Doctor," you answer, balling your fists, your fingernails digging into your palm. This is a cut and dry situation, and he's wasting your time. You have an innate need to go to the woman and begin treating her, but he's keeping you in your place.

"Well, as we can see, what we have here is a middle-aged African-American woman. This patient population generally has atypical presentation for a heart attack, with pain anywhere above the waist. Woman in general are also more likely to downplay this pain..."

You fight the urge to roll your eyes as he continues his tangent. You've been aware of this information since your second year of undergrad, and his rant is an insult to your intelligence. It is because of such tendencies that you can't bring yourself to like him, let alone respect him. You're also not about to foster his poor use of time, so rather than listen, you ignore his never-ending string of words and begin to work diligently. You start by introducing yourself to the woman, making sweet gestures like touching her hand gently to garner her trust, and since you can tell she's scared, you briefly explain what is about to transpire before inserting the nasal cannula. It's when her eyes give you an appreciative flicker that you know you can carry on promptly.

All the while, Will is still talking.

"Lopez, are you even listening to me?" He asks from behind you, standing there in disbelief, as though you've affronted him in some facet.

You feign concern. "Of course I'm listening, Doctor."

"Really? It didn't seem like you were listening," he asserts.

Silently, you tell yourself to breathe; two days is all you need, and then this will be over. Despite the fact he's an incompetent piece of shit, he is still your current attending supervisor.

"What are you planning to do here, Lopez?"

"Well, sir," you begin while pulling a needle from a drawer. "I was planning on drawing blood for troponin, performing an EKG, and writing an order for morphine to help control pain. Anything you would do differently?"

You challenge him with your words and direct eye contact, fully knowing your high level of competence. As he stands there, completely silent, it dawns on you that he wants nothing more than to see you fumble. Maybe he doesn't like you. Maybe he doesn't feel like women should be practicing physicians. If you're honest about it, you really don't give a fuck what he thinks; you just know he shouldn't be standing in your way when you're ever so capable of doing your job.

His mouth opens a few times, as though he means to speak, but nothing comes out. Then, he finally offers: "No. Carry on."

When Mercedes enters the room, wheeling in an electronic contraption, you watch Will leave through the brown curtain like he's been wounded.

* * *

You're glad when Will finally leaves at 5. Your other attending supervisor isn't a complete asshole, and he leaves you to pretty much do your job freely. It's a breath of fresh air, and you find that soon after, the day goes by like a blur. In fact, it's so busy that you wind up running your ass off just to keep up.

Around the tenth hour of your shift, you go down to the cafeteria in attempt to appease your grumbling stomach. Even though you're fully aware of the repercussions from not eating, you're used to that sharp pain that comes along with it. In actuality, since your residency began, you've lost a considerable amount of weight, mainly because you despise hospital food. Your body has been surviving off of blueberry muffins and coffee for months; mostly coffee when the muffins are stale.

Once you sit down, you eat at the pace of an Olympic medalist. You wash down the sweet cake crumbles with searing hot black coffee and find that it helps immensely. Already, you feel yourself becoming more alert, a little stronger than you were a half hour ago, and that prompts you to get back on your wobbly legs. When you stand, all the blood in your body rushes to your head, and despite knowing you need sleep, you persuade yourself to go back to work.

Upon your return to the E.R, you put a smile on your face and treat every patient with kindness. Your philosophy on humanity is something you pride yourself in. You believe in giving quality care and regarding your staff as worthy human beings deserving of respect. So often you see people in your position lose that, and it isn't something you want for yourself.

So you work.

And work.

And at one A.M, you're exhausted and still working, despite being scheduled to leave two hours prior. You can't though, not when things are so hectic. Every bed is full, the entire floor is in complete disarray, and you don't want to leave your colleagues in turmoil. So you smooth out the strands of unruly hair that are loose from your ponytail and bite your lip.

You work through the pain.

And that's when it happens.

You're reading the profile for bed three—a blunt force trauma patient—when you unceremoniously open the curtain. You peer in and see a familiar face surrounded by golden blonde hair sitting on the bed, her feet tucked under her Indian-style folded legs, reading an anatomy poster on the wall. Blue eyes flicker against the bright lighting, and all at once, the blood is back in your head again.

When she sees you, her eyes widen. She's looking at you just as curiously as you're looking at her; it makes your chest tighten and your throat constrict. Quite unsurely, you clutch your clipboard to your chest, holding it as though it's the only thing keeping you sound and sane.

It might be. You don't actually know.

Because it's quite feasible that exhaustion has taken its toll on you, thus creating illusions. It's not the first time it's crossed your mind — that perhaps this woman never really existed in the first place, but rather, you just dreamt her into reality. This in itself is a fruitless theory, however, because you remember everything down to the finite details—her legs; her lips; the perfect curvature of her breasts; the way her breath hitched when you slipped inside of her. It had your head spinning for days.

Now you're spinning again, only this time it's out of your control. Your mouth is dry. You feel that raw sensation as saliva travels down your throat. The ability to move, think, or speak has been abandoned.

And she just keeps looking at you, unraveling you in the most delicate way possible.

As much as you don't like it, you can't control the pull she has, drawing you into the room just a little bit closer.

It's then that you notice the fresh blood still glistening at the gash across the right side of her forehead, and a modest amount crusted and accrued near the corner of her brow. Your eyes trail down to the swollen cheek and linger on the corner of an angry, hot-red stung lip.

All you can do is look.

And pray that she isn't a figment of your imagination.

"Hi..." she says in this sweet, innocent manner that tangles your insides.

"H—Hi," you stammer back while silently cursing yourself for your inability to speak clearly.

She scans your face in a way that makes you self-conscious and hyper-aware of everything, like she isn't just looking at you, but she's really looking at you. You find yourself getting a bit lost in the shuffle.

Thankfully, a curtain being whipped open knocks you out of your trance.

"Dr. Lopez, I have the saline, betadine, suture kit and gauze you asked for. Is there anything else you need?" Mercedes inquires while wheeling a noisy metal cart further into the room.

She stares momentarily at you. Finally, you open your mouth in attempt find words again. "That will be all. Thank you," you manage.

The moment Mercedes leaves, you wish you would have found a reason for her to stay. You're so unsure of yourself right then, being scrutinized under that blue gaze, and it's becoming increasingly difficult for you to properly function.

You don't like admitting when your pride has been wounded. You're not one for emotions as it is; but the fact that she was the direct cause for such a sentiment leaves you feeling a bit bruised, even if part of you knows it was for the best. Any kind of commitment from you is bound to be fatal from the start; you thoroughly recognize this.

But right now, in this moment, it's like everything you felt that night has just suspended into gravity, hanging, leaving you stripped bare.

You try to push it down. You have to. You've got a job to do.

Slowly you move, listening to the harsh sound of your sneakers hitting the tiles, closing enough distance to properly examine her. Still gripping your clipboard, you force yourself to glance down at her name above the thick black line, knowing you need it to accordingly address her.

With great determination, your face stays stoic as ever.

"Ms... Pierce?" you finally ask after eyeing the near perfect handwriting. You make a mental note of the impeccable way she forms her lower case A's and sharp curvature of her B's. It's entirely fitting with her personality.

When she looks up at you and nods, smiling a little bit now that you're speaking, it makes your stomach churn. You hate how awkward this is when all she needs right now is a fucking doctor.

You get your shit together.

You grab a pair of gloves from the table next to you and slip them on. She's watching you intently as you stay close, and you move just a little bit nearer, inspecting her skin.

"If it's okay, I'm going to..." you trail off.

She blushes. "Oh yeah—whatever you need to do," she replies quickly.

You've never been subjected to such a dilemma before. You see hundreds of patients a day, touch some of them much more intimately than you're about to touch her, been privy to their most personal matters, and you've never had an issue before.

Now, you're struggling just to articulate words.

With valor, you swallow thickly and bring your steady fingers down to her forehead, gently pulling at the skin, investigating how deep the gash is. Through the dried blood, you see a shallow laceration warranting about eight stitches. You lean in, your eyes finding the torn skin on her lip; you hold your gaze at the purple bruise forming across her cheek, and because you just have to, your fingers to flutter over the damaged flesh for the briefest of seconds.

In response, her body goes rigid, and you immediately pull away. Your hope is that she will assume it was accidental, just a mere slip of your fingers...

Backing up quickly, you begin, "Well, uh, you only need about eight stitches. It looks worse than it really is. Did they send you down for an x-ray already?"

She bites down on her bottom lip while she contemplates your question, her eyes flickering from you to the floor. "I think so. They had me doing a bunch of stuff earlier."

You nod. "Good. I'll go take a look at those, and then we'll get you fixed up."

You step away to check on her x-rays, and upon your return, she's sitting right where you left her, looking a little more comfortable than she did earlier. When she notices you walk in, a soft smile creeps across that perfect, candid face.

You have to remind yourself that the gesture is probably not meant for you; more likely, it's meant for the intangible conception of possibly leaving soon, or the contingency of strong prescription medication that only you can supply. You're just a catalyst in every scenario.

It's not for you.

Even if that night it was for you.

You could've sworn it was for you.

But that was months ago.

And this is now.

And she left.

And you're so unbelievably unavailable there is literally nothing you could offer her.

These are the things you remind yourself when you speak again. "Your x-rays look fine. You don't have a concussion. We'll get you some low dosage Vicodin to control the discomfort for the next week, some stitches, and get you out of here."

"Thanks," she says sweetly, her eyes lingering on you again. She's twirling her fingers together nervously, and you bite down hard on the flesh of your lip, vaguely remember just how good they felt buried inside you.

Your face flushes. You need to get it the fuck together.

You push the metal supply tray near her bedside and begin prepping yourself. You really don't need to prep, you just need the extra moment to assure that your fingers don't fumble.

Yet she keeps gazing up at you, and you really wish she wouldn't.

"I'm just going to have you lay flat so I can..." Again, you can't seem to finish sentences.

"Oh. Right," she replies.

She acquiesces and falls back against the bed, allowing you to begin your careful ministrations. You find that once she closes her eyes and is no longer looking at you, it's exponentially easier for you to concentrate.

You pick up the needle and begin to work slowly. The silence hanging becomes prevalent. You can feel it surrounding you, weighing down the air of the room. You're desperate to cut through it.

"So uh..." You ask brazenly as you begin to gently clean the torn flesh with saline. She winces. "How did you manage this?"

You make small talk sometimes when you're a doctor. It doesn't mean anything.

But it means something to you when you notice her blush.

"It's stupid," she admits.

"Well... what if I promise that I've heard worse?"

"I mean, I'm sure you have. That doesn't mean I want to tell you _my_ embarrassing story." You chuckle a bit, feeling your mood lighten considerably because she's talking to you with such ease.

"But I want to know your embarrassing story," you encourage.

She smirks, and after the dried blood has been removed, with a prowess, your hands begin to work in a steady rhythm of precise movements. They're pushing and pulling, beginning to stitch her back together again.

She still hasn't spoken.

"You know, it's necessary information for hospital documentation. Besides, I have to make sure you're not a domestic abuse case." You say it, but you know this situation isn't domestic abuse. You've seen enough of those types of wounds to know the difference.

"No one beat me up, if that's what you're asking," she replies.

"Okay, so _what_ beat you up?"

"A shelf," she blurts.

You smile. You can't help it.

"A _shelf_?"

"See, this is why I didn't want to tell you," she pouts.

It's your turn to blush.

"Well, what did this shelf exactly do?" you inquire curiously, the slightest bit of play in your voice.

As if it were a natural reaction, you find yourself slowing your movements. It's like your hands won't allow you to work any faster than at a slow, delicate pace—one that garners you a few extra moments with her.

"If you must know, it wasn't the shelf's fault—it was Lord Tubbington's. I knew I shouldn't have put his catnip up there."

You turn your head to the side and tuck your bottom lip between your teeth, trying not to chuckle at her admission. She catches you though, and immediately opens up her mouth to berate you. Traced with the slightest bit of frustration, she says, "You're laughing at me!"

"No, no—not at you, at the shelf," you correct her. This engenders some kind of unintelligible groan to escape from her lips and you laugh again.

"Well, all I can say is that Lord Tubbington must have really wanted that catnip." You tease while slowly threading the last suture.

"The thing is, he knows he's too chubby to get up there. He's knocked it down before, only this time, it was while I was sleeping."

"Hence the getting beat up," you state, cutting off the end of the string.

"Yep."

"Well, look at the bright side: you got to hang out in the hospital waiting room at 1 a.m. on a Sunday night with all of Cleveland's finest. I'm sure you overheard some pretty entertaining conversations."

She laughs; you can tell it's an honest laugh. You're actually quite certain it's the only way she knows how.

"Yeah... some lady kept asking me if I took her purse."

You give her your best serious face while beginning to place gauze strips across her wound. You can smell sleep on her breath as it wisps across your face. "Well, did you take her purse?"

She smiles. "Of course not."

You can't help but look at her wistfully, loving the way she juts out her lower lip; it's almost a pout—but not really. It's so innocent, so fragile, and you think it may be the most adorable thing you've discovered about her yet.

And it kind of scares you, because you want to discover all the little trivial details that make up who she is—like if she needs complete silence when reading, or if she keeps the windows open at night, or if her pillow smells like her shampoo.

You practically tremble you're so scared.

"Well, you're all set," you tell her. "I'll have Mercedes bring you your prescription. You should follow up with your regular doctor in about ten days, have those stitches taken out." She stands and stretches. The look she gives tells you that she has a question, but she isn't sure if she should ask it.

You underestimate her though, because she does.

"What about you?"

You raise your brow inquisitively. "What about me?"

"Can't I follow up with you?"

Your throat catches again as several undetermined feelings flutter in your stomach.

But you keep it professional.

Because you are a professional.

This is what you do.

"Well, that seems silly. Coming all the way to the E.R. to take out some stitches? Besides, I'm moving to transplant in a few days. We don't handle those sort of issues there."

Her eyes look a bit crestfallen and she nods carefully, but you can tell she isn't broken.

"Take care of yourself, Ms. Pierce."

Even though you're the first one to walk away, part of you wonders if she watches you go.

* * *

To say you're nervous for your first day on transplant would be an understatement.

It's only the most pivotal rotation of your career; no big deal.

You're shadowing two surgeons that are both extremely gifted and highly renowned, and while you know this is the moment you've been waiting for, it's still intimidating. You're one Latina woman swimming in a sea with two dozen privileged Caucasian men. You have to outwork them. You have to know more than them. You have to prove you're just as capable, if not more so.

You have to be better, period.

Your shift starts promptly at 6 a.m., and you get there a bit early, strung out on your third cup of coffee. You've been up since 3, trying to decide on which pair of suit pants were more fitting to wear under your lab jacket. You were worried about the way the tight grey pair hugged your ass; it may have been sending out a message that you didn't want to send, and that's not how you plan on working your way to the top.

When you walk through the pale double doors, your heart palpitates. You wipe the sweat from your brow, curl your fingers in an apprehensive anticipation. It's all for none though, as you're pleasantly surprised by a welcoming atmosphere of smiles. The floor clerk greets you in an incredibly friendly manner, showing you to your locker and offering you free access to the numerous boxes of donuts splayed across the break table. You're speechless. It's never been like this before—so free, so lacking chaos.

You take a deep breath and start getting settled in.

You're shrugging your sweater off your shoulders when you hear "Hey," from a male voice not far behind you.

When you look over, you see his hands rummaging through the endless boxes of donuts. Your eyes slow trail over him, studying his demeanor, and you know he's a nurse because of the dark blue scrubs he's wearing.

He walks over, offering a wry smile just before extending his right hand. You take it and shake firm, noting the way his dark brown hair is strategically swept to the side.

"Hi."

You smile, but not cautiously. There's something trusting about his face. You like the way he makes direct eye contact, but not in a confrontational manner.

"I'm Kurt," he informs.

"Santana Lopez."

"Lovely to meet you. Sticking around for a while?"

"Six months, maybe? Hard to say." It's an honest answer. You know that they're going to keep you here longer than anywhere else, as this is your desired area of expertise. But they could potentially send you off to general surgery as well.

Kurt rocks on his heels and grins just before taking a bite of his chocolate covered donut. "Well, we're awesome, so you should stay here."

"Is that so?" You tease.

"Of course. Transplant is the best."

"I'm sure you are," you confirm, flashing your eyes at him playfully.

"Well, I look forward to seeing you around, Dr. Lopez."

"Likewise," you tell him, watching him carry half his donut in his mouth as he walks out the door.

You settle in a bit, and once you make it out to the floor, you find Dr. Yuik, your attending surgeon, standing at the nurse's station. He's a short Chinese man with a wide set face and who walks too fast. He constantly uses his index finger to push his thick-rimmed glasses back up the bridge of his nose. At first you're scared of the fact that he rarely talks, but soon you learn it's because English isn't his forte. He just likes to keep his word count to a minimum, giving direct and concise answers, wasting little time. It's a dialect that likely comes across as rude to most, but you know this isn't his intention; you can tell by his paralanguage and the intonation of his voice—it lacks egotism or the need for accolades.

By the time 1 rolls around, he basically tells you to go enjoy yourself and sends you on your way. You're in complete shock; you haven't taken a full one-hour lunch break in over six months.

You don't even remember what the cafeteria looks like at this time of day.

It's nothing you can't figure out though, and you locate some crappy Saran-wrapped sandwich with too much lettuce by the soda stand. You sit down and try to appreciate a non-rushed meal, even if only half of it actually gets eaten.

When you find your way back upstairs and locate Dr. Yuik in a patient's room, clicking the tip of his pen while going over discharge paperwork, you take your place next to him. His instructions are frank, but thorough. You love the fact that he isn't married to technology, that when he's in a patient's room his devices stay silently in his pocket, and that he gives people his full attention.

You also realize after shadowing him for a few more hours that he is a fountain of knowledge. His range is broad. When asked questions not pertaining to the surgical unit, he can answer them without a moment's hesitation. You hang on his every word, just wanting to see a little further inside his brilliant mind, hoping to one day possess just a fraction of what he has.

You cannot count the ways in which you admire him already.

And because of that, the day goes by quicker than you even realize.

* * *

Your shift is supposed to end at 6.

When the clock hits 6:14, you're walking to the elevator.

At 6:22 PM, you're in your car, and you can't believe it.

In fact, you're afraid to think about it too much; it's like if you try to wrap your head around it, you just may want for it again.

The music hums uncharacteristically low in the background as you drive. You're used to having to crank it just so you can stay awake for the fifteen minute drive back to your apartment; but now as you're listening just to listen, it's a strange context.

When you get to your barely lived in one bedroom, you kick your shoes off near the foyer with a pleasant sigh and walk past the small stack of dishes in the sink. You can't remember the last time you had the luxury of such free time, so you immediately head for the bathroom. There, you turn the shower handle to scalding hot and let the tub fill half way. Before you settle in and let the waves kiss your achy muscles and tired limbs, you flick your iPod to shuffle. It's a valiant attempt to fill the silence—one that allows you close your eyes and submerge yourself in the warmth of tranquility.

It's the best night you've had in forever.

* * *

The next morning proves to be busier than the last. There is an influx of patients early in the morning, two of them which have to be prepped to go into the O.R., and the floor is filled to its maximum capacity. It's strange because the calm you experienced yesterday has been replaced with strenuous glances and panicked steps. Even Kurt's smile has somewhat diminished, but he still takes the time to shoot you a quick grin as you pass glances in the hallway, an effort meant to lift your confidence, surely.

It's nice, you have to admit. And it kind of works.

But you're so busy writing orders and making rounds that your mind quickly forgets. Everyone seems to be making your job harder. In the late afternoon when your fresh kidney patients come back from the O.R., you're all over the place, having to constantly check blood and urine labs. Room 7 is struggling to maintain heart-rate, your labs haven't come back yet, and twice you have to argue with the pharmacy over medication mishaps. You're so agitated that you nearly throw your expensive-as-hell stethoscope at the wall.

Right around six Kurt comes and taps your shoulder from behind as you're checking vitals. You eye his wry smile quizzically as he pulls you aside, like he has some silly secret he wants to share with you.

"Yes?"

"Well, it seems that you have a visitor." You lift your brow and his grin grows rather wicked, as though he's implying something.

Quite confounded, you respond, "Huh?" You honestly have no idea what or who he's talking about.

"Well, it so happens that there is a really cute blonde standing up at the front desk, asking for a Dr. Lopez; that would be you, correct?" His wide smile expands farther, and your pulse picks up a bit. If it's who you think it is...

"Tall, long legs..." He nudges you.

You roll your eyes at him, your stomach growing a bit uneasy. "What are you suggesting there, Hummel?"

"Oh, come off it," he teases.

"I have no idea what you're talking about," you feign, but in truth, you're a bit panicked. No one in your professional life has ever known about your sexuality, and you're definitely not comfortable with changing that now.

Despite your heart fluttering, you finish up writing an order for the nurse before making your way over to the desk. There, you see her—face still a bit battered, but exponentially better than the last time you were in her presence. Currently she's leaning her back against the wall, dangling a white paper bag between her fingertips, with a pink umbrella tucked under her arm.

That's when you finally notice the rain pattering against the windows for the first time. You also notice the tight jean shorts she's donning, and you stare quite guiltily as your eyes never seem to settle on her face. They keep flickering over her thighs and calves, appreciating the way her muscles tighten as she presses the weight of her foot off the wall. You're suddenly thankful for the unreliable September weather, as it has given you the generous gift of staring at her ankles, even if just for a little while.

You hate how your body just reacts on its own volition; you don't even get a choice in the matter. Your heart just randomly picks up speed any time she's around, and your breathing gets shallow, and...

You stop in your tracks before her, your mind lost in a parallel of serious wonderment and sexual frustration. You're not sure which one takes precedent, but you kind of have an idea.

"Hey," she offers, those blue eyes flitting over you ever so carefully.

You feel your cheeks heat under her stare. "What can I do for you, Ms. Pierce?" you ask, your voice even-keeled, your intentions made perfectly clear:

Professional.

Arm's length.

But she doesn't skip a beat, remaining completely unfazed. "Well, I have these stitches that need to be removed, and my regular doctor doesn't have any appointments until October. I heard something about a really good doctor on this floor, and I figured I'd check it out..."

You blush again.

You'd be lying if you said her smile didn't make you want to smile—that when you see the corners of her lips form that tight crease and slip effortlessly, that your heart doesn't levitate.

Yet...

"Ms. Pierce, I'm flattered, really, but..." She studies your facial features curiously, looking for something.

"But what?" She asks bleakly.

"This is a transplant unit, and we're extremely busy right now." The words come out so matter-of-factly that you immediately dislike yourself, especially because of the dejected expression she now wears. You're not certain why she's here, or what exactly she wants from you, but you're not going to truly entertain the thought of finding out. Because you know how this story pans out, and she's too lovely and you're too reckless—full of empty promises and half-hearted attempts. You've let down many of her predecessors; you're sure it's bound to happen again.

She studies you before saying anything else. "Maybe I could wait until you're not busy? Or until you take a break? I brought some soup. It's chicken and dumpling, so it's pretty much the best thing ever." She holds the white bag up and gently shakes it, as if to tease you with it. You chuckle slightly.

It amazes you how she does this; she has this strange nature of saying exactly what's on her mind, but in a way that always seems to make sense. You're not sure what to think of it. It's unnerving, yet somehow still amiable.

"I appreciate the sentiment, but I can't. If you'd like to leave your number with the receptionist up front though, I can ask her to help find you another physician with available appointments."

Her gaze falls to the floor. "I just... I kind of wanted it to be you," she admits.

And your heart rate picks up again.

"I'm flattered, but I can't. I'm very busy right now; I have to get back." Her eyes look for yours again, and then they're there, holding you tight, keeping you locked in. The effect makes you count time in your head as the seconds pass.

"Maybe another time," she says.

You shrug without thinking about it.

She sets the bag on the desk next to you, her eyes still trained on yours. You avert your stare to the ground, unsure you have the strength for anything else. "Don't forget your soup. It's from that bistro down the street; it's amazing," she reminds you gently. So gently. It forces you to recognize the slow pace of her voice, like patience is the underlying message she's trying to get across to you.

Even her insignificance has significance.

There's also something steady about her movements as she pivots on her feet, preparing to walk away, exuding a courteous certainty. You take a moment to contemplate the gesture—the ease, the flow, how she's graceful even in simplicity, and it serves to remind you how unlike everyone else she is.

"Thank you," you barely make out.

And just as you think she doesn't hear you, she looks back at you for the briefest of seconds.

Consequently, you almost reach out. You're only a reflex away, a hairsbreadth of distance from doing so. You know because you approximate it. Your desire to exist in the space that she resides in is that powerful.

Yet, you don't. You falter. You watch as she makes her way down the hall, waiting patiently before the elevators. Again, you want to reach. You wish for things you don't usually wish for. You wish for the absence of complication, for more than twenty-four hours in a day and willpower and...

You make silent whispers of wishes, like a time when Brittany Pierce isn't the most important thing in the room.


	3. Chapter 3

Chicken and dumpling soup has quickly risen to the top of your things to love list. You're not quite sure why or how it happened, you just know that after working thirteen hours, you're standing in line at the quaint little bistro not far from the hospital, breathing in that smell of fresh baked bread and herbs. The aroma permeating your vicinity has left you with an appetite that you forgot even existed until about nine days ago. You crave it.

"Back again?" the woman behind the counter asks, and you blush.

"So it seems," you reply.

This may or may not be your fourth appearance this week. You're not sure; you haven't been counting.

You impart a thoughtful smile and order your normal—dumpling soup and fresh baguette—while feeling your stomach grumble in anticipation. You've spent the last two hours dreaming about the rich broth and hearty vegetables you're about to consume. You're now also eyeing the blueberry scone that's sitting all by itself in a scant display case, subtly imploring you to purchase it.

It's getting late though, and decidedly, you pass on the sweets. You hand over your debit card to the cashier and scan your surroundings, eyes flickering from the steaming soup wells to the door. Every time it opens, you half expect a certain blonde to walk through, flashing that wicked smile and wrapping you up in her gaze all over again.

What an exquisite way to keep warm that would be.

You think perhaps if you sat at the little corner table and waited out the next fifteen minutes before they closed, she just might surprise you. Maybe she would walk through those doors, all brash and sure, leaving you to blush under her stare. Only this time you wouldn't be so you. You'd lick your lips, meet her gaze, collect your courage...

Maybe you'd surprise yourself.

Yet, you shouldn't. You know you shouldn't.

It's just that she's been taking up more space in your head than you'd prefer. You have ridiculous visions of holding her hand while you do entirely meaningless things together—like singing in the car, or buying laundry detergent. This is a fearful notion for you because she's a distraction, one that could be devastating to your career, particularly because you know your body loses its sense of free will whenever she's in a close proximity; but you also recognize the curious draw that reels you in. This innate part of you wants to find out more. You want to discover who she is, who you are when you're with her; and already you can tell, you like yourself a little bit more when she's around.

But you like being Dr. Lopez, too.

Which is why when the cashier scoots your bag over to you, your eyes only flit over that table once more. Anything else would leave the ache in your chest to linger just a little too long.

* * *

Your third week on transplant, two things happen: one, you get moved to midnights; and two, the floor is assigned another resident doctor. It would be accurate to say you're not exactly thrilled about either. Late nights tend to draw in the crazy, and the fellow resident? Well, it's not that you don't want the help (or extra day off a week it allots you), you just don't want the individual selected to do the helping.

He is...many things.

Including a total dick.

Dave Karofsky. 28. Chubby, but not necessarily unattractive. Average height. Strong jaw. Brown hair. Even eyes. Pale skin. Thick lips.

Basically, he's the All-American boy. The exact prototype of what a doctor should be.

And yet, you are entirely scared for those entrusted in his care.

It bothers you on a visceral level, because this predetermined ideology of what classifies as a proficient practicing physician is utter bullshit, especially since you know how lazy Karofsky is. All through med school you noticed his incompetence; you watched him trail behind others while you lead. His performance was below standard on a regular basis, but his dad—some yuppie that knows people in high places—swept his fuck ups under the rug. It used to make you seethe to the point of rage. And if you're honest, it still does. As a doctor, when people seek out your care, they rely on your competence. Your knowledge and training is meant to ensure this competence. It's development is not meant to be easy. You're not wrapping Big Macs; you're saving lives.

Some people tend to disagree with that logic, and it scares the shit out of you.

Every time you've tried to recall a time when in which Karofsky's exhibited any real type of capability, you can't; you've only been privy to his weaknesses. At this point you're fairly acclimated with them, and the further along the both of your careers go, the more prevalent they become. It's like clock-watching; you just stand there, holding a certain amount of expectancy, waiting for the hand to strike. Every time he forgets an imperative detail or his fingers fumble, it constitutes as further justification.

Kind of like right now. He's walking up to you, holding an injection tubule with doubtful eyes, and your fear travels to new depths. It's such a basic task, one that he should have mastered eons ago, and the fact that it's still causing inhibitions just...

It blows your fucking mind.

You scan the empty room, like maybe another sweep-through will magically make your attending doctor appear, able-bodied and ready to witness whatever fatuous comment is sure to emit from Karofsky's mouth. He's a mere two feet from you, lips parted, as he begins to frankly ask, "Dr. Lopez, how much glucose do you recommend I give a patient with a blood sugar level of 41?"

You can't help it. It's an involuntary reaction. Everything goes red.

Heat coils in your chest. You bite your bottom lip and dip your eyes low, too professional to show your frustration. Even though the selfish part of you wants to leave him to fend for himself, just to put on a full display how inept he really is, you can't. The risk is too weighty. People shouldn't suffer because he doesn't understand the gravity of his occupation.

You sigh heavily, making sure he hears the pitch of slight irritation. "Are you not familiar with the standard glucose injection, doctor?" The taste left in your mouth from calling him "doctor" is not one you care to remember.

"Well, she's a five-foot-seven female, one hundred and sixty four pounds—"

"That information is irrelevant," you interrupt him.

"What do you mean?"

"What I mean is that the standard dose for glucose is 1 amp of D-50. The dosage of dextrose is diluted; body type doesn't matter."

"_Oh_," he mumbles.

"Oh" is apparently the standard response for him, because it directly follows your answer to the next three questions he asks as well. By late evening, you're over it. If anything, you're encouraging the crazy people to come in. You'll even hold the shaker board if it'll help.

When Dr. Kellman makes his way to the floor, you pray that he'll notice Karofsky's incompetence.

You quickly learn however that Dr. Kellman isn't really interested in semantics. He brushes off Karofsky's stupidity like anything else, and in the limited time you do find yourself in his company, you hold your tongue. You don't like him. In fact, you can't stand him. While admittedly medically brilliant, he's incredibly boisterous, ignorant, and chauvinist. It's just a vibe that radiates for some reason. Your theories have no basis of course, and are only assumptions, but his demeanor tells you that he really enjoys the status that his job title affords him; like he's the type of guy who knows the value of his money and where it can get him in the world. You imagine the women he fucks aren't his wife, that he takes them to 700 dollar a night hotel rooms with high thread count sheets, and his self-esteem is built upon these cornerstones alone.

You've also caught him staring at your ass.

Twice.

The third time happens when you're at the nurse's station, leaning over to read the flow-sheet, and you see him from across the way, eyeing you intently. You clench your fists, digging your nails into your palms when Kurt comes up to you.

"Lopez, what the hell are you still doing? It's almost midnight. This princess needs to eat."

You're still burning with anger, but you chuckle at him slightly, not letting the comedic value of the moment pass you by. He thinks you don't notice how he's been purposefully waiting to take his break, acting as if it's some grand coincidence that your lunches are now in sync with one another's. It's kind of adorable. You'll even admit to enjoying the company and the witty banter that Kurt offers, but most doctors don't have personal relationships with their staff. It could be seen as highly unprofessional, and for this reason alone, you're not sure you want to solidify such a daily routine.

But something tells you Kurt isn't going to go down without a fight. He's pretty adamant on being your new BFF.

With a voice tracing sarcasm, you answer: "Calm yourself. You're not going to wither away, I promise."

"Don't make promises you can't keep," he teases. He then cranes his neck, like he's noticed something, and finds Dr. Kellman sizing you up again. From a close distance, you hear his light snicker.

"Don't even...," you warn him.

With a tickle of tease, he says, "Well, this would certainly be one of the perks of coming out to your coworkers."

You furrow your brow. "Hush."

He shrugs his shoulders. "I mean, maybe if he knew that you only rode the vagina wagon, he wouldn't be giving you creepy eyes."

"And how do you know what wagon I ride?"

"Oh please," he scoffs. "I've got a twenty that says you own every Alanis Morissette album ever made."

You shoot him a glare. "Another comment and I'm deleting every Lady Gaga track on your iPod."

His mouth agape, he looks at you inquisitively. "You wouldn't dare."

"Oh, I would," you challenge.

With a hurt expression, he squints, "So you're committing musical blasphemy because I'm speaking the truth?"

"Lady Gaga herself is already musical blasphemy."

"You take that back," he orders.

You shake your head and close the flow chart book, rocking on your front toes, preparing to answer the call light that just went off. "Nope."

As you begin to walk away, Kurt calls out to you, "I'll meet you downstairs in thirty?"

With careful footing, in one swift motion you pivot on your heels, giving you the opportunity to look at him while slowly walking backwards. You shrug unceremoniously and say, "Duty calls, Hummel" just before twirling back around.

* * *

Maybe it's wrong when you sneak away without him, but you just want to eat a meal without explanation and judgement from your colleagues. So you make your way downstairs, finding a little corner booth the furthest away from the world. It doesn't take long for him to find you, though. Almost as if he knew where you were all along, he strolls over as you're picking the crumb topping off your muffin, and slides into the floral cloth covered cushion beside you.

"Way to sneak down here without me," Kurt whines playfully, eyeing you curiously. You bestow him a faint smirk and try to play it off gingerly. "You know, for being a gay man, you sure are needy with women."

"Whatever," he rolls his eyes.

He's scooting himself closer to you, unwrapping some sub concoction that smells like ass when you see another figure sit down across from your current position—one more familiar. Taller. Slighter. A bit more fragile.

Yet not fragile at all.

Even though it's been less than two weeks, your memory doesn't do the tangible representation of her justice, and her pinstriped pencil skirt only reiterates that fact. Your gaze lingers just a moment too long, allowing those blue eyes to catch you in your proclivity. Heat ascends through you, scaling up your neck, threatening to reach your cheeks. Despite your best efforts to keep a level face, you falter. The expression you offer treads the line of modesty, and you're inclined to bite down on your bottom lip to keep from blushing.

Kurt unsubtly clears his throat and says, "Brittany was just upstairs looking for you. I told her she should eat lunch with us. I hope that's okay."

You internally scoff at him, but say, "Of course."

As though she's been waiting for your approval all along, Brittany shakily exhales and begins making seemingly meaningless fluctuations. They're entirely incomplex gestures, but they allow you to discern the slow unfolding of her beauty—a simple shrug of a light jacket from her shoulders, a twist of movements, a flicker of a gaze and the slightest of smiles—you mentally record every bit of it, storing it in the most concealed of places.

And when she settles in the seat across from you, never leaving your eyes, you watch her mouth "hi" quietly; like a secret. Your heart flutters slightly. You blink. You shiver. You study the wetness left on her lips after she licks them unconsciously. An innate part of you wants to say something back. You want to reciprocate the stolen glances and silent whispers, but you don't know how to get to that place; it's too far away from where you are.

You avert your eyes. You're not sure if it's eons or seconds, but silence becomes prevalent.

You laugh at your lack of response. Life is kind of funny like that. You're capable of so many things. You can treat a bullet wound without flinching, make perfect sutures and immediately pick through lies; yet, in the adult world, you still can't seem grasp the art of flirting.

Breaking the silence, Brittany inquires: "So...transplant, huh? That seems crazy. You guys are like...giving people new hearts and stuff?"

You concentrate on her hands. They're ripping and tearing open sugar packet after sugar packet, pouring the contents into the small paper cup of tea sitting before her. You count ten altogether before the lid goes back on. The odd quirk makes you smile and she carries on like it's the most common thing in the world.

Kurt finally answers, but not without an inkling of irritation directed at you. "Uh, sometimes. Heart transplants aren't as typical as kidney transplants, but they're not uncommon. Actually, Santana assisted Dr. Yuik in a heart and lung transplant earlier this week. Right, San?"

You forgot you were supposed to be having a conversation and find yourself with a mouthful of muffin. That's when a swift kick comes underneath the table, slamming into your shin. You furrow your brow and look over at Kurt, watching as he silently mouths:_ talk to her._

Brittany eyes you with interest. "Oh, wow. You actually get to do that stuff? That's amazing. Is it gross, though? Seeing people's insides? I always thought it might be..."

The question is obviously directed at you, so you can't avert it. You swallow your food, clear your throat, and muster up a bit of confidence that always seems to be lacking when she's near. "I wouldn't say it's gross. Some people might think so. I don't know; I guess I just find it fascinating more than anything else."

She leans forward and asks,"What's so fascinating about it?"

You lick your lips because they suddenly feel really dry. "Um..." You stumble; you're having a hard time articulating words when she's eyeing you like that. "I guess it's just...everything? How the human body works, knowing what can cause this or what might cause that. I like being able to figure out what's wrong with people. But surgery? It's kind of like being the repair man. After you figure out what's wrong, you get to fix it. It makes me feel like I'm doing something and not just handing out prescriptions to everyone. I've always wanted to do it, ever since I was a kid."

"That's so cool. You guys should be proud of yourselves. Seriously. I don't think I could do it," she admits.

"Everyone's got their thing. I'm sure you've got yours," Kurt says. It's laced with bait, and you sit back, waiting to see if Brittany will bite.

"I would think so. I work here, actually."

Your mouth hangs open. You stare, wide-eyed.

"Oh?" Kurt asks.

"Yeah. I'm a social worker, specialized in hospice."

Kurt flails a bit, jazz hands and all. "Wait, what? Britt! You've been holding out on us. That's fucking amazing. And it's such a hard job."

"I love it," she blushes.

"Talk about awesome. You're it, lady," Kurt encourages.

And you feel a kick against your shin again.

"Uhh..." you're fumbling for a second time—"what sort of hospice work do you do? Are you interacting with patients, or more behind the scenes, or...?"

You didn't want to ask it, but when she grins at your question, you're suddenly glad for doing so.

"Most clients are kind of past that interacting point. I just find ways to make them more comfortable. Like, I talk with families and figure out what kind of stuff they like; that way, I can set up their room for them, surround them with things that make them happy. I like knowing that I was the last person to make someone smile. And how many people get to do that? It's awesome, you know?"

You scan her face with a newfound quiet admiration before your voice perks up. "I can only imagine."

And then you appreciate the rosy blush that spreads across her cheeks.

"So you work late, Britt?" Kurt asks.

"Sometimes. Depends when people need me. I kind of make up my own hours, but I'm here mostly during the day."

"Well, if you're around with us night time folk, you should totally eat with us more often."

With a hint of play in her voice, "Really? What do you think about that, Dr. Lopez?" The question catches you off guard.

You try to scrounge up a response without a stammer. "Well, I don't always have time for lunch breaks..."

But that look on her face tells you just how relentless she can be. "And the days that you do?"

Because you sense the slightest amount of hope in the question, you can't bear to squander it. "I suppose I don't mind the company," you concede.

And when she gives you that warm, genuine smile again, you swear, you've never felt like you've mattered more. It allows you for even the briefest of seconds to return it.

"So...I have this thing. I have to do it. It's probably just because of my job, but like, I feel like I don't know someone unless I know their favorite things." Brittany admits.

You look at her quizzically. "That's kind of random."

"But informative," Brittany retorts. "Knowing the things that matter to someone tells you a lot about them."

Kurt's lips curl up in cocky grin. "Showtunes."

You roll your eyes. "No one here wants to talk about your obsession with Liza Minnelli, Hummel"

"Hey, hey. She is a legend, thank you very much."

"Congratulations, Brittany; you've officially established that Kurt is an idiot."

"And incredibly gay," he declares.

Brittany laughs lightly. "Well, I already knew that, silly. What about you, San? Any favorites?" The partial use of your name doesn't go unnoticed, and it leaves a general warmth to flood your chest.

"Um...I don't really have favorite things."

She furrows her brow and looks at you. "You've got to have favorite things. Everyone does."

You shrug nonchalantly, but she's insistent. "Well, tell me something that you love—something you really look forward to."

You pucker your lips together and count time as you contemplate. "Uh, Halloween, I guess."

Kurt laughs comically. "Halloween? Of all the things you pick, you pick _that_?"

With a slight blush, you admit _that you just really like Halloween candy_. And you shrug again. Perhaps the need to do so was prompted by a false reality. You had expectations about your revelation being deemed as stupid; yet when you look over at Brittany, she's telling you otherwise. The grin across her face doesn't leave you embarrassed or remorseful, but rather warm and curious. So much, in fact, you're seconds away from parting your lips. Your mouth is prepared to ask all sorts of questions about her favorite things, and why and —

"Shit," you mutter as your side pocket begins to buzz, practically making you jump out of your skin. Your blackberry alerts you that three new messages are awaiting, the first one marked urgent. "I've gotta get back. They're paging me," you inform.

You stand and Kurt quickly takes another mouthful of sub before following suit. The moment kind of hangs heavily. You can tell by the way Brittany crosses her arms and presses her lips together that she's trying to avoid that look of disappointment from reaching her face. You wish it wouldn't matter to you, but something about it tugs at your insides, prompting you to avert your stare. You end up looking again though, and after a second glance, you're actually quite certain that look will be the death of you. Now that you've witnessed it, felt its ramifications, you're terrified of the lengths you'll go just to never see it again.

She is...

Beyond so many things.

Kurt leans over the table and holds out his hand. "It was really nice talking to you, Britt. I'm looking forward to seeing you more." She beams as her gaze flits from him to you, patiently waiting to hear your next words. You feel as though there is a heaviness your reaction holds, knowing that however you choose to respond will be pivotal in either moving forward or backwards.

Neutral is all you need. Just stay neutral.

"Thanks for sitting with us."

Friendly. Nothing more, nothing less. Right where you need to be.

"Thanks for having me," she grins.

Just as you are, you're prepared to walk away. You're nearly a step in motion with Kurt only a beat behind you, but her gaze won't allow it. Those eyes hold you down, drawing you to the earth, tilting the universe's equilibrium.

And you don't feel neutral at all.

You feel...

Like a pendulum

swinging between you

and your falling

And there is nothing you can do to stop it.

* * *

You pull yourselves away, and once you and Kurt are alone in the elevators, you choose that as your moment to speak freely.

"Kurt, what the hell was that?"

With wide eyes, he looks at you flabbergasted. "Are you kidding me right now? I just did you a favor."

You scoff with a bit of anger. "Putting me in awkward situations is not doing me any favors."

"You're crazy. That woman is fantastic. If you don't want to date her, I will."

You raise your eyebrow, and with a taste of sarcasm, bite: "Yeah. You go ahead and do that."

"Well, obviously she's missing...essentials, but you get my point, Santana. She adores you. Give her a chance."

You sigh, a bit defeated. "Look, I appreciate you trying to help me out and all, but I don't have time for this kind of thing. You of all people should know that."

His face falls. "San..."

The elevator dings and the door opens. You take the opportunity as an end to your conversation without having to verbalize it. Rather than remain bitter, immediately you fall back into work mode, ignoring Kurt's shooting glances and subtle messages. You're done talking about Brittany, about him, about everything.

The rest of the night goes by quickly, and the minute you open up your apartment door at half past eight, you walk in and collapse on your couch. Your body still hasn't adjusted to sleeping when the rest of the world is awake. At this time, you're used to fighting traffic and standing in long lines for overpriced coffee, but you're tired enough now that when your head hits the cushion propped against the armrest, it only takes seconds for you to drift.

Eight hours of glorious sleep follows. It's the longest you've slept in two weeks, and you wake feeling stiff, yet refreshed.

Your afternoon doesn't exactly start off the way you want it, though. You're out of milk, so you can't have that bowl of Cheerios as planned, and then your washing machine won't spin. You end up having to make a call down to the front office, requesting maintenance. When the woman on the other end tells you no one can come out until Tuesday morning for repairs, you lose your shit, unleashing that sharp tongue; and even though it doesn't help your cause, you do feel a bit better after you call her a useless twat.

This is the part where you wish you'd spent a little bit more money to live in a nicer apartment complex. At the time, logically, you couldn't persuade yourself to do so. Resident doctors make only slightly more than a nurse's salary, and you've already had to begin paying back some of those pricey student loans. It's not like you're living the dream. In all honesty, you won't begin making real money until you either start your own private practice or take on a surgical unit position somewhere.

You don't really want to do either. The thought of becoming a glorified tit surgeon just so you can own a ninety-thousand dollar BMW isn't exactly on your list of wants; and neither is working eighty hours a week.

These are the things no one tells you when you decide to become a doctor.

This is your life though, and at the moment, you have no clean scrubs or the means to wash them. You'll have to stop at that run down 24 hour laundromat across the street from the hospital. Maybe it won't be entirely awful. Maybe you can curl up in a chair and sleep for the few hours you're stuck there.

To bide your time before work, you clean your apartment and listen to Pride and Prejudice on audio. You purposefully leave the accent setting to British for authenticity reasons. Or because you really like the way it sounds. You admit to nothing.

When you do get to work, there's a plastic orange bucket shaped like a pumpkin with black handles sitting on the counter. It's filled to the brim with assorted candy, and written in black sharpie is your name neatly across the back.

You smile wide. "What's this all about?" you ask Mercedes as she steals a piece of candy corn fleetingly. She shrugs. "A woman from hospice dropped it off, said it was for you."

Trailing your fingers through the bucket of wrapped sweets, your mind can't help but imagine Brittany standing in the candy aisle at the grocery store, trying to hand select something just for you. It leaves you smiling because you love so many things about the gesture—the loss of time meant on your account, the thoughtfulness, the conscious effort to get a variety of chocolates and sour candies, almost like she understands your indecisiveness. You're certain it may be one of the nicest things anyone has ever done for you.

You'll never eat all that candy though, so you leave the bucket on the counter, but not before abstracting all the Snickers bars. Those you store in the side pocket of your lab coat, and every time your hand periodically reaches for one, you feel another soft smile threaten the lines of your face.

And every time you feel that threat, you attempt to learn its texture, understand its capabilities and constancy. Because gravity seems to be at work here, pulling you in a direction your body is not accustomed to going in. It's taking you to a realm of fixed levitation, suspending a weightless worry, and if you're not careful, your feet may never touch the ground.

You fear it like nothing else, yet want it like nothing before.

Your mind is sorting through such thoughts as Kurt comes up to you, holding up an almond joy and giving you a face that says: I told you so.

As if to reiterate his previous statement, "Could she be any more adorable? Seriously. San..."

You eye him intently. "Stay out of my shit, Hummel."

"Oh, come on. Even you have to admit how sweet this was."

You nod your head in agreement and peer down at your watch. "Yes, it was an incredibly nice gesture. Don't you have rounds to be making?"

He grumbles, then points his finger at you as he begins to walk away. "Don't you dare fuck this up."

Disregarding his warning, you finish the last note on a patient's chart and head over to the locker room. It's nearly eight in the morning, and you want nothing more than to go home, eat another Snickers bar, and crawl into bed with Saturday morning cartoons softly filling the background. The slow pace of the night shift is almost making you more exhausted than the chaos of days.

But the bright sun beating against the window serves as a reminder that the world awaits. There's still laundry to be done and a stack of unpaid bills sitting on your bedside table. And despite having zero initiative, you change out of your hospital smelling scrubs and throw on a pair of jeans with a raggedy t-shirt. It's sloppier than your usual neat attire, but you're not exactly seeking to impress anyone at the laundromat.

You're nearly out the door when the BlackBerry in your pocket lets out a quick buzz. You stop abruptly, not wanting to look at it, let alone answer it. This is a scene you're all too familiar with: you—on your way out the door—but some minor crisis that requires your presence has become imminent; or your attending doctor suddenly deems it necessary for you to help with some last minute, but entirely necessary surgery.

Brazenly, you click on the home screen, prompting a number you don't recognize to light up. At that point, you have to laugh, because the message presented before you isn't even remotely close to the one you were expecting.

_Good morning, Dr. Lopez. Have breakfast with me? - Britt_

You're not positive how she got your work number, but you have a general idea.

_I can't. I have to do laundry. Thank you for the offer._

It's less than a minute later when the next text comes through.

_Oh, well that's not a problem. I'll bring breakfast to you. Where are you doing laundry? - Britt_

A rush of blood goes to your head.

_The laundromat, but I'm sure you have better things to do with your Saturday. Thanks though._

You're not surprised by the immediate response.

_Let me be the judge of that - Britt_

* * *

You should've gone to the laundromat before work, because apparently nine on Saturday morning is a popular timeframe for washing clothes in the Cleveland community. You kind of feel left out. You were not privy to this information.

You really wish you had been.

And among other things you wish for, your iPod is one of them.

Forgetting it was the worst possible scenario, because some little boy is currently running around with a plastic airplane, making swishing noises as it floats a mere two inches from your object has already hit you in the nose once, and you can't back into your chair any further than you already have. Even with the pure discomfort written across your face, he still holds it before you, leaning further in every time you tilt away. Since this has been happening for the better part of fifteen minutes, you just assume his parent is absent or useless. You're hoping for useless; babysitting was not on the docket for today.

And you kind of hate kids. A lot.

When he starts pointing the airplane at you, spittle escaping from his mouth as he makes fake shooting sounds, you prop your feet onto your chair and pull up your knees in attempt to guard your face.

"Hey, that's not nice," a soft voice echoes.

And there you see Britt, standing before you, holding a familiar white paper bag with a lovely smell emanating from its contents. The little boy grows still, eyeing her just as inquisitively as you are, scanning her make-up free face and tousled hair. You adore that she's in pink stretch-pants rather than strolling in all radiant, making you feel inferior in your comfortable jeans and loose shirt.

She has a sense for these things though; she always does.

"Tyler!" The booming voice of his mother comes from across the way, and immediately he bolts. You're half tempted to walk up to her and ask her where she's been the last goddamn twenty minutes, but Britt's taken the scuffed, plastic seat next to you, and watching her has taken all the attention you have to offer.

"Thank God. Baby Hitler was trying to kill me."

She smiles wryly, giving you a hint of sarcasm."Yeah. He definitely looked intimidating, holding that plastic airplane."

With a need to defend your pride, you explain: "He was. Did you see the mini mustache? He probably has a swastika tattoo hidden somewhere. Look at him."

You nod your head in his direction, and the both of you look over to the little boy, who's not a day older than five, now sitting next to his mother. His cheeks are puffed out while he continues to make swishing sounds, holding the plane midair, leaning back and forth.

Chucking softly, she says: "Yeah. Pretty scary. Good thing I showed up when I did. Who knows what would've happened otherwise."

"It's a mystery," you grin.

Returning the warmest of smiles, she opens up the bag and begins handing you carry out containers of food. First you get a paper container filled with strawberries and granola. Next comes some type of egg, bacon and cheese sandwich on a bagel. It smells so delicious you may cry real tears of joy.

"Wow, this is...thank you." You're at a loss. She needs to stop doing these nice things for you when you haven't done a single nice thing for her. You're not even sure you know how to do nice things for other people.

As if she can see your wheels spinning, she nudges you softly with her shoulder. "It's nothing. I had the day off and wanted breakfast, but I didn't have anyone to keep me company. You can't have breakfast without company. I should be thanking you."

Her smile is...

You have no words.

All you can fathom are differences.

Differences that are beginning to accumulate in your mind, and you compel yourself to store them in a secret place no one can reach. It's now so dauntingly apparent to you that it forces the air from your lungs; because if you think about it too much, if you really let it sink in, you'll recognize she is everything you aren't—honest without ever needing to be mean, compassionate even when she's hurt, beautiful without ever taking credit for it—and it only further validates your original notion that she is indeed much too good for you.

"San?" It's more of an _are you with me_ kind of question than anything else.

You smile soft and reassuringly while eating your sandwich in comfortable silence. You even stay perfectly collected when she shuffles slightly, leaving the outside of her thigh to press against yours in the most glorious way possible.

You don't move for the whole three minutes and twenty-seven seconds it stays there.

The need to cross her legs requires a shift in position though, and it forces you to become aware of your surroundings outside of her again. More people pool in. More children. They're running about, screaming and hopping, completely immodest.

Fatigue begins to set in after a while, and your body doesn't understand the disarray. Every attempt you make to mentally drown out their sounds falter, and your eyes are begin pleading for sleep. A now satiated stomach only makes you grow more tired.

She notices your heavy lids fluttering. You knew she would.

"You look exhausted," she says gently, lips curled into the most perfect curve you've ever seen.

"A little," you admit.

Decisively, she pulls an iPod out of her hoodie pocket, and you look curiously at the set of headphones neatly wrapped around it. After being unraveled, she places a single bud in her ear before handing you the other. She commands you to take it.

Apprehensively, you proceed, catching it from her fingers and placing it in your ear. In a moment's time, familiar, soft music begins to play. It's not loud enough to be overbearing, but it is just enough to drown out a little of the chaos surrounding you.

You curl yourself into a ball and lean your head against the back of your chair, trying to situate yourself into the most comfortable position possible. It isn't exactly ideal, but it works because seconds later, you're blank. You're not in that world of dreamless sleep, but you're close enough that your body recognizes it as just that.

You're unsure of how time passes or the length in which it does, but when you wake up, you're much more comfortable than you were before. The chills you experienced just before drifting are gone. The plastic of the chair that was digging into your forehead no longer feels harsh, but soft and enticing. Even the atmosphere smells better, like warm caramels and faint wind. You're not positive where you are, but it may be the most comfortable place you've ever been.

You lick at the dryness of your lips and swallow the sleep in your mouth. Fabric tickles your chin, and when your eyes flutter open, you're welcomed by the smoothest, softest skin you've ever had the privilege of finding. Your gaze follows the pale neckline up to the curve of a long jaw, and then back down. A faint pool of moisture has collected in that neck dip where your lips were just residing.

Then, it clicks.

In embarrassment, you immediately pull away.

You're entirely afraid to look over, but when you do, you see her head leaned back against the wall, eyes shut softly as her chest rises and falls naturally. Loose hairs have fallen against her face, and you think even amid sleep, she's some deviated version of perfection.

And sitting next to your feet is all of your laundry—clean, dry and neatly folded. You run the tips of your fingers across the shirt atop the stack, and feel a rush to your head.

"_Britt_," you call out, gently.

When she doesn't move, you say it again.

And this time, she hears. She blinks. She stretches her arms and looks around quizzically in her waking, questioning the venue. She studies you briefly, as if you're the only thing allowing her to reenter the land of reality.

Groggily, she asks, "What time is it?"

Your watch indicates it's after one, and you tell her so.

"Wow," she exhales.

"You let me sleep too long," you say.

"You needed it," she deadpans.

"And you did my laundry," you state, rubbing your temples.

"You needed that, too."

"So you're just going to give me everything I need?"

She shrugs nonchalantly. "Maybe." You can't help but scoff and chuckle awkwardly.

You contemplate the words before asking, but it's pretty much an inevitable question at this point. "Why?"

Perfectly level and unabashed, she gazes at you. "Why not?" Her frankness has no bounds. You're not sure how you fair under it.

With the honesty approach, you answer: "Because I haven't exactly given you a good reason to do nice things for me."

She bites her bottom lip and considers your statement while time plays slowly in the background. "I just..." her voice trails.

"You just what?"

"I just like doing things for you."

You can't help it; you sigh frustratedly. "Yeah, but _why_?"

"I didn't know I needed a reason," she says.

You just want answers. None of this is logical.

Bitterly, you say, "Yeah, I guess you don't." You never meet her gaze. Rather, you just begin packing up your things quietly. The need for air and space has become overwhelming.

"Look..." she offers after a moment. Her eyes challenge you, daring you to meet them. You give her your focus.

"I know that it's probably weird that I'm doing all this, and you think you haven't done anything for me, but..." Her voice stops and starts again. "But I guess I'm not really that worried about it. I just have this feeling...like it doesn't matter; like you're worth it."

And she catches you—your look, your breath, your bravery. You gaze at her and feel a soft stir deepening in you. You think about all the things it might mean, but your thoughts have become broken visions and possibilities that cannot be unraveled.

And only her you can fathom.

Enraptured in a world where Brittany Pierce has evaluated your worth.

She has thought about it, assessed it, decimalized it, ranked it, named it.

She has named you something worthwhile.

And when you think about what that might mean, you become so uncertain that it scares you. Because that soft stir has grown less timid. It's reaching out with confidence—a newfound valor that's tugging at your heartstrings, vocalizing to you what it wants.

And it wants you to be worth it.


	4. Chapter 4

Your blackberry vibrates in your pocket for a second time, and the buzz manages to garner unwanted attention from four different sets of eyes surrounding you. Of course, it's Quinn calling you _again_, and heaven forbid you don't answer. While you know if you don't ring her back promptly she will seek and bitch you out, but you can't worry about that right now. You're wary enough as it is, and the looks you've just generated are making you feel even more so. The cough you consequently fake comes as a strange sense of comfort, and when the awkward moment passes, you quietly slide your chair further against the conference room table. Your stomach flips and flops. As you ascertain the paternalistic demeanor and cold silence stretched across the stuffy room, your pulse thrums firmly, leaving a continuous, nervous flutter in your chest. You count breaths. You pinpoint and find a steady rhythm of in and out. Your foot taps a tempo in tandem with the muffled sounds of heart monitors from across the hall—anything to will your mind away from this...perceived inability of your lungs failing to catch up.

It doesn't really help. Like, not at all.

You're still not sure why you're here. You got a message late last night, requiring your presence for a meeting at 8 this morning. Nothing more was said. The not knowing has made you a bit anxious, maybe even slightly panicked. Did you fuck up a patient dosage when writing a prescription? Did you misdiagnose someone? Did you leave the hospital liable?

Yet, the sentiment doesn't appeared to be a shared one, as everyone else is calm and collected. Dr. Yuik just peers down at his watch impatiently, Dr. Kellman sits with his hands folded neatly in his lap, and Dr. Karofsky has one leg crossed over the other, leaning back comfortably against the plush cushioned chair.

And you? If you chew your bottom lip any more, there will be nothing left of it.

The clock ticks 8:06. Karofsky clicks his tongue. Some other surgeon you're not familiar with takes a sip of steaming hot liquid from a plastic Tervis mug. Time seemingly moves with a deliberate patience.

Then Sue Sylvester— transplant floor manager—finally stands tall, clears her voice and begins addressing everyone from the head of the table. "Thank you all for coming out this morning. I'm sure a few of you have been clued in on why you're here. For the rest of you: we have a VIP patient being admitted this afternoon, and I want to be thorough on how we're going to handle the situation."

Your lungs release. Rich, oxygenated blood finds its way back into your system. A long breath expels before you finally inhale stale air again, and the taste of relief sits on your tongue.

Through relief you also find anger, however, because if you're being honest, the issue at hand is not a good enough reason for you to be awake and out of your bed; especially not after working thirteen hours the day prior.

Sue's standing behind her chair, palms gripping the headrest. Her feet are grounded to the floor as she leans forward. You eye her curiously but uncertainly. You've seen her around; you know what she's about. She's a tough love kind of leader—assertive and directive—but not really effective, and there's a large confliction of ideologies between the two of you. You've never seen anyone improve their job performance by being demeaned and yelled at, and that is pretty much her M.O. She doesn't exemplify skills to her staff—only makes demands without giving them the tools in which to do so. You've also witnessed her cut and dry, her black and white, and you know she will never garner any real type of respect. Despite the fact that she seems to think it works, and the hospital chooses to keep her around, you still disagree with her decision making.

"Rachel Berry is our hospital administrator's daughter, and she is being transferred to the floor this afternoon. She came in to the E.R. last night experiencing violent flu like symptoms. Dr. Schuester seems to think it has something to do with a recent breast implantation."

Your throat catches and you bring up your arm to cover your face, choking back a silent laugh. No one seemed to notice though, and that helps you keep your eyes steady and your mouth straight.

"Now, obviously this isn't a transplant issue, but our nurse to patient ratio is the lowest in the hospital. And because we have private rooms, it's likely that she'll be here until she gets better. Apparently the infection is wide spread, so it may take a while."

You peer over at Dr. Yuik just as he presses his lips together tightly, eyes locked on Sylvester. His gaze is hard, intentional, maybe a bit impatient.

She seems to acknowledge it and folds her arms together. "Now, this is how we're going to do it: First and foremost, Berry is only to be looked after by staff I approve of. I'm rotating my best nurses around her, and I'm giving them direct orders that any type of treatment or medicine administered will require consultation with either Dr. Yuik or Dr. Kellman first."

Dr. Yuik shakes his head immediately. "I really don't think you should do that."

"And why is that?" Sue questions, her tone touching a bit more cocky than you'd like it to.

"Because it's a waste of time and will inevitably do exactly what you're trying to avoid. What if we're in the middle of surgery? We don't have time for trivialities. I highly suggest you reconsider your approach."

Completely unafflicted, Sue straightens her spine and keeps her stance. "Well, it's really not up for discussion. I'm not taking chances here. We've already fucked up once. Her father is not happy. He thinks our plastic surgery department made a colossal mistake, and we have no way to prove they didn't—"

Interjecting, "Many patients reject silicone. It's a commonality," Dr. Yuik explains.

"I'll let you go ahead and explain that to her father, and see what he tells you." Sue retorts.

A shrug ensues. "I really don't care what he has to say."

Losing her patience, she rubs her temples. "Look, I get what you're saying; I do. But you're just gonna have to go with it. She's an important client. We need to get it right. No fuck ups."

Yuik shakes his head. "I'm trying to tell you that you're setting yourself up for mistakes. You're wasting what little time we have. I've never understood this whole thing with VIP, anyway; a patient is a patient, period."

She smirks at him with daring eyes. "I'm not devaluing the importance of anyone, but I'm sure you understand what I'm trying to say here," she offers.

"Well, apparently I don't, because to me, you're implying that the lives and of some people are more important than others based on socioeconomics."

You watch as she contemplates, and it seems like she takes the time to choose her next words carefully, "Look, in the grand scheme of things, there are some people that we have to treat more importantly," she admits.

A voice filled with purpose and challenge retorts, "I'm here for one reason, and that is to practice medicine. I'm not here to play babysitter for a hospital administrator's privileged daughter, and I'm certainly not redesigning protocol for one person."

Sylvester blatantly sighs with meaning. "Again, there isn't a choice in the matter here, Doctor." Something about the way she emphasizes _choice_ signifies power and the abuse of it.

And apparently it's not lost on Dr. Yuik's part either. He scoffs, "With all due respect, I don't care if there is or isn't a _choice_. This is insulting, and honestly, ridiculous. We are trained professionals, taught to give everyone the same care. I'm not going to be a part of some charade intended to meet your self - aggrandizing personal preferences. This is a waste of my time and everyone else's. As a matter of fact, I should be in surgery right now."

Her lips purse together. "Well, you're not; you're here."

You witness the unfolding in silent awe as he pushes his chair out, stands and begins swinging a jacket over his shoulder. A harsh rustle from the fabric echoes amid the quiet room. "Yeah," he begins. "I may be here right now, but I promise you in the future, I won't be."

"Should I get in touch with administration? Is this your resignation?" she asks carefully, as though she's tiptoeing around her words, but not really.

Another scoff, but this time it sounds more disgusted. "I'll let them know by the end of the day."

You only hear shallow footsteps and the heavy beat of your heart. A click of the door sounds behind you as it opens, then closes. Dr. Kellman blows uncomfortable air from his cheeks, Karofsky sits there, wide eyed and pale. You let out a breath you didn't even know you were holding and slump back in your chair.

"Anyone else have anything they'd like to say on the matter?" Sylvester asks.

Silence.

"Dr. Kellman, I trust you can handle this situation?"

He nods his head immediately. "I'd be happy to. I used to take care of VIP patients all the time at U of M. I'd rather, honestly. I know it'll get done right."

You fight the urge to roll your eyes at the grandiose efforts, yet it doesn't surprise you in the least. Of course he partakes in bullshit hospital politics. Why wouldn't he?

Sue continues, "Well, in that case, I suggest you pick the better of the two residents, and that person will be in charge when you're not around. We can't fuck up again, understand?"

Dr. Kellman nods his head and looks between you and Karofsky, and you imagine the wheels in his head spinning, his cognition playing a game of eeny meeny miney moe. You're confident though; you know what you're capable of. You've displayed it time and time again, running circles around Karofsky while half doing his job on top of yours.

His gaze continues to flicker just before it settles on Karofsky.

With a voice clear and clipped, "Dr. Karofsky has a background in infectious disease, and I think he's up for the job," Kellman says.

Your feel your heart sink, your stomach descend and your pride dissipate. Of all the things you were expecting, this was not one of them. Fucking Karofsky? Really? Why would anyone think he has more potential than you? You can't even think of one single instance where he showed himself as even remotely _able_.

You bite your lip in a furious frustration, your gaze zeroed in on the blue carpeting at your feet. It's like fifth grade all over again, when the boys wouldn't pick you for kickball; and while you know the crux of the matter may be petty antics, the pang in your chest is still real.

And there's something about the stupid ass grin on Karofsky's face that makes it even more real. You want to slap the conceit from his mouth.

If you weren't so worried about practicing medicine ever again, you just might have.

"Congratulations, Karofsky," Sue calls out with a smirk. "Don't fuck up."

* * *

"Oh my God, this is fucking brilliant," Kurt exclaims, arms crossed across his chest, his upper back slumped heavily into the wall. The two of you are watching the shit-show in room 14 unfold before your eyes, all the while perfect smiles staying intact. The best part is: you don't even feel guilty about it.

With a feigned crackling voice, you hear Rachel whine, "My throat is dry. Can someone get me some water? I've only been asking for nearly an hour."

It's followed by an unsure voice calling out, "Uhhh, sure thing, Miss Berry." And then you witness Karofsky enter the hall, mumbling a bit frantically to himself, still waiting for his nurse aide to come back with the cold compress Rachel requested fifteen minutes ago. Ten minutes before that, she demanded extra blankets, socks, ice chips and a different brand of toothpaste.

With a grin, Kurt says, "Welcome to the land of VIP patients—also known as: _very impatient pricks_. Aren't you glad this isn't your life right now?"

Ignoring the question, you ask worriedly, "Should I help him?"

"Um, no. Let Shrek handle his own shit," he remarks bitterly.

Immediately, you purse your lips to hide your laughter. Kurt's wit—like always—has been a welcome distraction, and already, you're feeling infinitely lighter than you were a few hours prior. Yes, part of you is still really fucking mad that Karofsky was deemed better; but now, you think it was probably the best outcome possible. With the floor having several admissions today, and one that just got transferred from the E.R., it helps serve as a reminder that there are legitimately ill people who need you. You're pretty sure the world would rather have you treat them than Karofsky, who is better suited to babysit the V.I.P hobbit with man-hands over in room 14. She still hasn't stopped bitching.

"He's gonna last a whole two days. Watch," Kurt states enthusiastically. You want to agree, but you won't; you want your lips to slide into a smile, but you can't allow them. It's not professional. Nothing about this conversation is professional.

Instead, you distribute your weight to your front foot and move yourself away from the wall. While you retort, "Yeah, I don't need to watch; I've seen enough," you slowly put yourself in motion. Kurt follows behind as you make your way down the hall, your stethoscope swinging around your neck, the chest piece tapping against your clavicle with every step.

With curiosity he inquires, "So, did you read her file?"

"Huh?"

"Berry's file. Did you read it?"

You furrow your brow, and without even thinking about it, your head shakes.

"It's not my patient. Why would I read her file?"

With a hint of cruelty in his voice, "Well, I read it," Kurt boasts. "The E.R. notes are fantastic; says she went into a jacuzzi tub just two days after getting implants and got an infection. Genius, I tell you."

Despite your best efforts not to laugh at his wickedness, you do. He has this effect on you, and while you kind of adore it, for the same reason you kind of hate it, too.

All you respond with is an eye roll, and "lovely."

He follows you to just outside of room 8 where your new admission has been stationed, and you pull the chart off the wall, scanning it for general information. The patient is a 28 year-old male who just received a liver transplant about 2 months ago. He came into the E.R. early this afternoon for flu-like symptoms and general discomfort. After a few tests, they immediately transferred him to your floor.

You knock on the door before entering, and with a soft voice, you call out, "Mr. Anderson?" He looks up. Tired eyes flit their gaze over and about you, making notions, evaluating your kinesics. You smile gently, stand tall, but never proud. You're not that kind of doctor; you never want to be that kind of doctor.

He must approve of you, because right away, a smile is sent in your direction. "Blaine will work just fine," he chuckles.

You laugh a bit for yourself, knowing just how he feels. "Got it. Blaine. Check."

The smile creeps wider and grows contagious, and now you find yourself immediately returning it. "Well, I'm Dr. Lopez and this is Kurt, one of our nurses. Is it okay if you tell us a little bit about what's going on with you?"

He proceeds to explain his recent decline in health—how he's had diarrhea, nausea and abdominal discomfort for days now. He's also developed a persistent rash under his arm that has not gone away for over two weeks.

You give him your attention and listen with patience, and when you think you have enough information, you fill your notepad with scribble only you could comprehend. Next comes a quick click of a pen and a slide back into your favorite spot—the breast pocket of your lab coat—before making your way over to the sink to wash your hands.

When you return to his bedside, carefully, you ask, "Is it okay if I examine you?"

You always wait for the nod, and once you have permission, you take the time to look him over properly. In this case, you especially examine his skin, making sure the rash hasn't spread to other areas. And when you lift his gown and check his abdomen for irritant, his gaze locks on you nervously while a wild blush spreads to his cheeks.

A familiar voice cuts through the silence. "Geez, Lopez. Way to tell the guy you're about to start looking at his junk," Kurt grins.

While your brow furrows with a loving irritability, your ears feel hot to the touch with embarrassment. "I'm just looking for a rash. Hush," you bite back.

Kurt beams wildly at you. "Didn't look like that to me," he teases. You still your movements and shake your head, making sure to shoot him the dirtiest of looks. Blaine is about all of the different shades of pink you've ever seen, and now this whole scenario is just awkward thanks to your head nurse.

"Don't you have meds that need to be passed out?" you ask.

Kurt rolls his eyes at you, but it gets the job done; he leaves you in peace.

After he exits, a silence stills the room. It's not heavy, but it's not light, either.

You're jotting down more notes when you momentarily look over, and you catch it—the careful watching as your pen moves across paper, a gaze fixed on you in the most cautious of ways. His eyes speak of fear, yet the need to trust; like the potential of his life is in your hands, and he wants to make sure you recognize it.

It's a look that's relatively new to you, but you you're not afraid of it. While the last year has been nothing but a learning experience, every time your rotations change, the assignments get a little bit harder, the outcomes a little bit weightier. It's challenging in the best way possible.

This is your dream. You want to help people survive.

It makes you wish you could tell him all the reasons you wanted to become a doctor—that when you were little, you had to watch your Abuelo die at the hands of incompetent medical clinicians. This has always been personal—more than just an occupation; it's your self-worth, your reason for existence. The lengths in which you will go, the efforts you're willing to put forth are beyond insurmountable.

In your wish you have the ability to speak freely, assure him in every possible way, but you can't.

"So, any idea what's going on? They really didn't tell me anything in the E.R.," Blaine questions as he worries his lips with his teeth.

With a patient confidence, you explain, "Well, we have to run more tests, so it could be a number of things."

He begins nervously intertwining his fingers, thumbs hooking together, "Well, what are you thinking it _could_ be?"

You choose your next words wisely. "Like I said, it could be a number of things. I really can't tell you much until we see your blood work."

He groans in frustration. "Well, what's typical in this scenario?"

You sigh. You really don't want to have this conversation; not right now. Putting ideas in his head isn't going to get him to a better place. "Well, whenever we give any sort of transplant, the immune system has to be weakened so your body doesn't reject the new source. For you, this is a possibility. Your system could still just be too weak to fight off infections properly."

"Why do I feel like you're telling me half of what I want to know?"

"Because we're not to that point yet," you explain.

"I'm a grown up. Just tell me," he pleads.

You get the feeling that he isn't going to stop asking, so acquiescing, you just say it. "Your body could also be rejecting the new organ."

He goes pale.

Immediately, you regret this decision, because the scared and small look on his face clearly tells you how overwhelmed he is. You should've stood your ground. You know better. "Again, this is all hypothetical, and I won't know anything without running tests."

The air hangs heavy, and with an attempt of optimism, "Look, just trust us," you say. "You can't worry about what-ifs right now. Hopefully, we'll have a better idea of what's going on in the next couple of days, okay?"

He nods slowly. You sense the doubt, the weighted reality of all that exists in this room. For you, this has always been one of the hardest parts of being a doctor—understanding. You're not ill. You've never been ill. You're certainly not going to pretend to know how it feels.

The only thing you can is show him that you're capable and willing to fight.

With eyes never wavering, you tell him, "We're gonna take good care of you, no matter what."

And you mean it.

And you think he means it when he responds, "I trust you."

* * *

After fifteen hours, you're exhausted. Your heels throb. Your stomach grumbles. It's quite possible that if your Blackberry goes off again at any point in the next twenty minutes, you'll hurl it from the seventh story floor window; that's how many fucks you currently give.

Yet, when you find her steadfast gaze following you all the way to your locker, your morning feels infinitely lighter; better; with purpose. And when she turns her back to pour herself a cup of coffee, you watch her from behind, looking entirely put together in those crisp black pants and white button up shirt. It prompts you to peer down at your blood stained scrubs, disheveled hair and stretched out sneakers. In fact, you blush, more than a little bit embarrassed. You look like you just got off the struggle bus, and you can feel every disgusting germ the hospital has to offer emanating from your pores and crevices.

If she notices though, she doesn't voice it. Instead, she softly hums what you recognize from late middle school as "Lucky" by Britney Spears, and it echoes through the employee lounge. With fascination, you bite back a chuckle and watch her, hips swaying with ease. And one by one, she empties nearly fifteen sugar packets into her coffee. Three creamers follow with the soft stir of a spoon, and you think even amid the sleepy haze you're in, she might actually be the loveliest anomaly you've ever seen.

You call out, _Hey you_. You sit down on the bench across from her and begin to unlace your sneakers, pretending to concentrate on the task at hand; otherwise, you'd be staring at the way loose strands of blonde hair fall across her face in this imperfectly perfect manner. Especially right now, while the sun is rising through the window, casting pigments of hot red and yellow against her skin as she moves into it. The illumination all but demands that you to admire her, and it leads you to just sit there, smiling a tired half smile, feeling that pang because you know what the immediate future holds: your day's coming to an end while hers is just beginning. And for once, you kind of wish it wasn't ending; now that she's here, you really want it to begin.

Arms tired and heavy, you shimmy your heel from your Nikes and look up at her again. Both hands are gripped around her paper coffee cup as she carefully lifts it to her lips. While blowing at the top, she flits her eyes to you, her mouth forming a wry smile. It's like the gesture is reaffirming all your previous thoughts.

That's when reality strikes in the strangest of ways, hitting you with your very first ever cliché: you now think it's entirely possible that the sun really does rise and set with someone.

Not just anyone, though.

Only her.

With a smooth voice and a soft grin, "Good morning, Dr. Lopez" slips past her lips.

You smile back without meaning to. Well, you kind of mean to, just not in the dopey manner you're displaying. "And what brings you up to transplant this morning?" You really try to downplay your stupid-ass grin.

"You, of course. You didn't respond to my text last night."

You've been exchanging random text messages about your day as of recently, and it's allowed the small discovery of a few details—like how her sister is a dance major at OSU, or how Brittany rents an upper flat apartment from an Asian family. She was telling you last night that everything they cook smells like soy sauce, and it makes her hungry.

It made you smile. A lot.

And now you really want to learn everything there is about her, no matter how infinitesimal.

Yet, you can't. You know if you gave even the slightest bit of yourself to her, it would only be a matter of time before you gave her everything.

So instead, you make excuses, "I had two admissions last night. It kept me pretty busy."

With squinted, playfully accusing eyes, and a voice tracing the line of sexy-sultry, she smiles at you. "Dr. Lopez, are you trying to avoid me?"

"Not at all," you lie.

That look lingers on you. Your world spins under her stare. You count seconds.

She's approaching you slowly now, your gaze level with her thighs, and you recall a time when the inside of those thighs were tightly clenched around your hand. You feel the rush, the quick blooded swoon all at once, and the feeling can do nothing but descend and settle between your legs.

She stops before you. She leans down slowly, sending you further into vertigo just before warning in your ear, "You better not be."

You really want to ask her _or else what_, but that could be constituted as flirting. You also don't trust your voice not to give away too much, or tell how little of a resolve you have left when it comes to her.

When you look up, she's still in front of you, peering down at your feet. Her focus is now settled on the newly achieved hole in your sock. It's torn right through your big toe, and you chuckle as she laughs weakly at you.

"Long day, huh?"

"The longest," you admit.

She eyes you inquisitively, her tone laced with a bit of accusation. "Have you eaten?"

"I will. Eventually," you tell her.

She groans, "San..."

"I didn't have a lot of time." It's strange how your voice just traveled an octave higher, and why suddenly you feel the need to defend yourself right now.

She crosses her arms, giving you a look that makes you feel horrible for not taking better care of yourself, and, "You need to eat, San."

"I will," you repeat.

"You will?"

"Of course."

"Then how about I make you a deal you can't refuse?" slides past her lips.

Immediately your interest is piqued. "Oh?"

"You go home and sleep, and when you wake up, send me your address. I'll bring you dinner. You get food, I know for sure you've eaten, and everyone wins."

_Everyone wins_ echoes in your mind.

Her words make you contemplative, yet nervous; valued, yet unworthy of the sentiment. You want to say no, name all the reasons why it isn't a good idea, but every time she gives you that look, you're finding it more than difficult to say no to her. Instead, your lips move from still, your grin widens, your tone hits the slightest bit of curiously happy, and you can't help but respond, "So far, so good. What's the catch?"

Her eyes brighten, her smile extends, and—

That smile is...

You could easily make an infinite list of all the things her smile is.

Sorcery.

Manipulation.

Sexy.

Deserving.

Flawless.

Everything.

And while you're memorizing the corners of her lips, the fullness of her mouth, she eyes you intently.

She keeps you. She knows she has you.

As if you ever stood a chance.

"You have to share it with me."

Without thought, "And what if I don't like sharing?" It comes out entirely more flirtatious and sexual than you ever intended it to be. You're actually quite certain you've broken another rule.

"I didn't take you for the possessive type," she winks.

You blush. Hard.

You're not going to deny it, though.

In truth, it's a side of yourself that you haven't fully come to understand. While you know that there are certain things about your emotions that differentiate from others—the fierceness in which you feel things, how black and white your world can be with the high highs and the low lows—you still haven't come to terms with this newfound feeling quickly establishing itself somewhere in the pit of your stomach.

Because you've never wanted to possess or be possessed by anyone. Not ever.

But lately, your imaginings are becoming so vivid you can practically taste the atmosphere. You've fashioned flawless visions of a world where she takes your hand, she leads you to the place where your heart is the most overwhelmed, and you trust. You sense the honesty in everything. She is yours, you are hers, and possession is prevalent.

Yet, you know it's not the kind of possessive power that's over and against; it's the kind that concludes mutual understanding. Neither of you seek control; you seek equal parts. Perfect equilibrium is all that is achieved. It's quite simply an equation where she belongs to you, you belong to her.

And in this world, you think it might be okay to be named as hers.

You definitely don't want her to be anyone else's.

She could so easily be someone else's. Without question.

You think about that concept as she eyes you patiently. Your throat clears, you swallow thickly, and, "I uh...I work again tonight, but I have the next day off. Maybe then?"

Her focus brightens. She smiles the happiest of smiles, and your stomach flutters at the thought of you putting it there. "It's a date," she says.

You almost correct her. You almost say _it's not a date_.

Almost.

But the imaginings won't let you.

Rather, you stand. You make your way to the door, and just as you go to leave, she reaches. She grabs your hand, and you feel a slight weight and a quick slip. Something tickles your skin, like the ragged edge of plastic, and you smile. By the size and shape of the object, you think you know what's next to come. And when you look down, you see that recognizable label, and all your thoughts are confirmed.

Snickers satisfies.

"To tide you over," she grins.

And you feel it again—the pendulum, the swing, the slow descend into everything.

All you can do is stare at her in awe.

You're still not quite sure she's real. Yet, somehow, you think she's the most tangible thing in this room.

And when she stares back at you, her gaze never wavering, you think even more; like perhaps your previous notions may have been wrong.

Maybe you really do have favorite things.

* * *

You've never been a vivid dreamer when you sleep (probably because you're so damn tired all the time), but when your head hits the pillow and you allow yourself to drift into a land of darkness, you find your dreams filled with visions.

Images play of a two story brick house; one with large windows and a wraparound porch. On the porch sits a swing. And in this dream, every day, you lay across said swing and fall asleep with the morning sun beating across your face, the smell of wet grass filling your periphery.

But your head doesn't rest against the surface of the swing; it's leaned against warmth and comfort. Your cheek nuzzles against the smooth outer skin of a thigh. And even though you never look up to see her face, you know it's a woman. You can tell because of the lingering scent of floral shaving cream from her legs, or the way thin fingers softly weave through your hair. When she softly presses into your shoulder blades and her fingers find your knots, it seems like a familiar touch; like she knows your ins and outs, and has spent years mastering your aches.

It's another realm of perfect existence. You just might want to stay forever.

Yet the harsh buzz of your alarm clock tells you other things are more prevalent, and you groggily swat at the noisy contraption. Next, you wipe the sleep from your eyes, ignoring the dull pain in your calves, and slowly make your way to the bathroom.

You're glad that you were smart enough to rent an apartment close to the hospital, rather than the nicer ones just outside of town. If you had to get up a half hour earlier, you'd be the biggest cunt in all of Cleveland.

It takes you a grand total of 17 minutes to shower and get dressed, leaving you the normal 13 minutes to drive. You admire the falling leaves as you walk to your car, but of course, the sun is already lost in the clouds. You can't remember the last time you legitimately felt its warmth.

It makes you feel like you're a fucking vampire.

You don't listen to the radio on your way to work. You stopped doing that a long time ago. Stretches of silence have become important to you; they've given you a certain sense of clarity, sanity if you will.

Because the minute your feet hit the pale cream tiles of the transplant floor, all sanity is lost.

Today is no different. You walk in to a slightly panicked Kurt, watching as he whips by you. Two others quickly follow suit, headed towards room 8. Your feet aren't far behind.

When you step past the threshold, you see Blaine leaned over the side of the bed with Kurt's assistance, vomiting up blood. His face has gone paler since you last saw him early this morning. His skin now has a yellow tint to it.

You sigh.

Fuck.

Immediately, you go to the hallway, pulling up his lab results, crossing your fingers that they're there. They are, and you begin quickly skimming them over, looking at things like creatinine and bilirubin levels, red and white blood cell counts, platelets.

Everything you're seeing is abnormal.

You feel a hand wrap around your arm, and you gasp. You quickly spin around and see Dr. Kellman behind you, "What's going on?" He asks. "I've gotten two pages in the last fifteen minutes."

You eye him tentatively. "Room 8. It's not looking good. Bilirubin levels are sky high, his skin is showing increasing signs of jaundice. Pancytopenia definitely. There's also a steady increase in creatinine serum levels. The blood tests all came back with high levels of ALT, ALP and AST. I'm positive his liver and his kidneys are failing."

He looks at you inquisitively. "Let me see this," he demands and pushes you aside. You watch as he studies the monitor, scrolls up and down, stopping every so often and intently viewing the results.

After two minutes of just standing there, "He's displaying all the symptoms of graft vs. host," you finally conclude.

His eyes widen. "Wow. That's a heavy diagnosis you've got there."

You nod, but never waver. You're sure of yourself, even though he's looking at you in a way that makes you feel like you need to explain yourself. "There are just so many correlations—"

Kellman puts his hand up to stop you. "We'll see. In my thirteen years, I've only seen one case of graft vs. host ensuing after a liver transplant," he says. "I'd rather not jump the gun on a diagnosis."

Calmly, you respond. "I'm not saying we jump the gun. I'm saying he's showing all of the signs, and we should run tests," you explain.

He just stares at you like he's unconvinced, and then looks back at the computer screen. "I'm going to look these over with Dr. Yuik, and discuss it with him," he says dismissively.

Brazenly, you question this decision. "I don't understand. Why aren't you discussing it with me? I've been the one treating him for the last two days. I've been seeing all the symptoms. What's the problem?"

He sighs as though his patience is wearing thin, and he runs a hand through his hair. "My problem is that you're drawing conclusions. You're assuming he has a disease that only 1 - 2% of patients get, Dr. Lopez. I'm not sure if it's justified in this case."

"But I'm not assuming. I'm telling you we should run tests to rule it out—"

"Lopez," he interrupts. "My decision has been made. Let me talk to Dr. Yuik."

Bullshit. That's all you hear. You can process nothing more.

Because you can't look at him anymore, you turn so your back is facing his direction. Your top teeth bite down on your bottom lip bitterly as you shake your head. Everything about this is utterly ridiculous. You're right and you know you're fucking right.

Part of you thinks he knows you're right as well.

And maybe it burns him that a residency doctor figured it out first.

A _female_ residency doctor.

He's pivoting on his feet like he's about to turn away, but you're not done talking yet. "You know," you call out, and he turns his head back to you. "It's just a few biopsies. Isn't that what we're supposed to do? Rule things out? It's literally two tests."

His face stays the same. He doesn't meet your eyes. Instead, he words, "Sure. Whatever. Run the test," and he walks away.

/

Your food tray sits in front of you, your muffin completely untouched, your coffee kind of gross and cold. Kurt is using his fork to move around the lettuce in his salad, playing with it more than eating it. Neither one of you are in the talking kind of mood.

Finally, Kurt cuts the silence, "How long do you think he has?" His words hang as he just puts it out there, blunt as ever.

"A few weeks at best. A few days at worst," you answer honestly.

He says nothing more. He throws his plastic fork down and pushes his tray away. Then, he slips from his side of the booth and walks away without saying anything more.

You let him be, and a few minutes later, head up to the floor with your feet dragging. When you arrive, you walk through the halls; you check on patients. As you turn down the corridor, you find Blaine sitting up in his bed, eyes squeezed shut, the front of his neck and gown soaked with sweat. The last time you checked his temperature, it was right at 99. That was just over a half hour ago, and it's fairly evident that the fever has grown worse.

They ran a biopsy this evening, but you don't expect the results back until the morning. It seems as though all you can do is hurry up and wait. For now though, you've been trying to at least make him more comfortable. You gave him a morphine drip earlier, and currently, with a cool, damp towel, you begin patting his neck.

"Mr. Anderson," you call out, seeing if he's coherent.

He smiles at your voice, lifts his brows and hazily replies, "Hmmmm?"

You smile sadly, knowing that a comprehensible Mr. Anderson would have required you to call him "Blaine."

Gently, you say, "It's me, Dr. Lopez, from yesterday. Remember?"

He licks his lips as though they're dry, mumbling something incoherently as his body settles into stillness. And when his lids flutter open for a brief second, you see the conjunctival membranes over the sclerae of his eyes. They've turned that yellow color, matching the pigment of his skin.

It really shouldn't surprise you. It's common in jaundice, but for whatever reason, it shakes and startles you in a way you could never transcribe.

Something permeates. There's a feeling there, lodged in the back of your throat, lingering from the deepest of places. It courses so fast, so powerfully, you hardly even have the chance to prepare for it. You just go from sure-footed to heavy-headed in a matter of seconds.

In fact, you can't think of a time where you've ever felt more frail.

You compare and contrast facts.

28 years old.

You're 28 years old.

He's on the precipice of dying.

You're not dying.

The heart monitor beeps slowly but audibly. You're mentally pacing the spaces between those beeps when you feel a clammy hand find yours. You glance at him furtively, your eyes tingling hot from the verge of tears, your legs weak at best. Sweaty fingers thread between yours, and despite the plastic of the pulsox reader digging into your skin, you don't dare let go; rather, you squeeze reassuringly.

When you see a stilled pattern to his breathing, you finally let go. You have to start making your rounds. When you move though, it feels like the ground beneath your feet is faltering. Everything is rotating in fragmented particles and harsh hues—everything except the shadow beside you mimicking your steps; and like a tape recorder on rewind, you keep hearing that grey hologram of yourself recite broken promises that you can't take back.

_'Just trust us.'_

_'We're gonna take good care of you, no matter what.'_

You fall into the gradual process of feeling your head getting a little bit heavier, your heart getting a little bit weaker.

But being the professional that you are, you finish your rounds. Your hands may have shook the whole time, your throat may have been caught in your chest, but you did it. And when you're able to steal a few precious moments away in the bathroom, you waste no time opening the door. Once you're inside, you flip the lock, fall to your knees, and find solace slumped against the inside of the door. Hands still trembling, the tips of your fingers raise to wipe tear-glistened eyes, and finally, you let out the silent sob that wouldn't allow you to breathe properly before.

Alone. This is your safe haven. A place where you can let the tears fall, and the world doesn't get to see you break.


	5. Chapter 5

You couldn't stay in the comfort of the bathroom forever. You figured after twenty minutes, unprofessionalism would begin to set in.

Just as unprofessional as your emotional breakdown, you suppose.

But if it isn't irony fucking with you when Dr. Yuik catches you in the hallway all blotchy-faced with pink-rimmed eyelids, you don't know what is. And now you're certain he's going to think you're one of those melodramatic girls that can't handle herself.

Yet when he walks his way up to you and scans your face, it's with a common regard that doesn't disregard. It's more of a quiet consideration, like he's not judging you; he's just entertaining thoughts.

It makes your nerves a little less apparent when he says, "Dr. Lopez, if you have just a few moments, I need to go over some things with you."

You swallow thickly and hope that the dull, dry ache of your eyes will magically go away before conversing. "Of course." And you follow him. He leads you to the hall computer and you stand behind, watching as he pulls up several different screens until he finds the one desired. At the top it reads Blaine Anderson, and below has a compilation of lab results for recently run tests.

"Dr. Kellman told me about some of your concerns this morning, so I took some time to go over things. I wanted you to know, it appears that you were correct with your diagnosis."

Your heart doesn't know what to do: sink or swim.

Maybe if it weren't so fucking sad, you could actually gloat a bit about this display of competency; but nothing about this makes you want to celebrate. You can't even find words.

So you just press your lips together and nod your head in response, ignoring the burning sensation permeating at the crevices of your eyes.

"As you know, this is very difficult to treat—nearly impossible. For now, it's best that he gets moved to ICU immediately. I'm going to leave you in charge of the hospice referral, and I'll talk with Sue about calling his family."

You almost want to tell him that he's better off on transplant—with you—but you don't. Rather, you acquiesce in a silent deference, because it's Dr. Yuik, and you trust him in the most respectful of ways.

Again, you nod. You keep your voice conditioned; collected, "Anything else, doctor?"

"No, that will be all."

The dismissal offers you a moment to walk away freely, and you're thankful for it because you feel that tinge of tears again. But your name faintly being called stops you. It seems fleeting, so you don't spin around all the way, only enough to see who is seeking your attention. And it's him. He's standing there, waiting for your concentration.

He meets you halfway and eyes you sincerely. "You know, there's an old Chinese proverb I've always enjoyed," Dr. Yuik begins. "I used to memorize them when I was little, but one of my favorites was always, 'He who is passionate is honest.'" His voice stops before it begins again. "Sometimes in this profession, you have to remind yourself of the things you enjoy."

You're a bit struck by this. You're not entirely sure what to say, or if words are required at all. So when it feels appropriate, you just offer him a slow nod.

"I looked at the rotations, and saw that you're not here tomorrow. I expect you're doing something fun? What is it you kids do these days? Zumba?"

And you laugh, because beneath his accent, zumba sounds quite hilarious, even if you know the hidden meaning behind his comment. What he's really telling you is that he doesn't want to see you in here on your day off. He wants you to "remind yourself."

You contemplate this as he gives you a half grin, which is the best you can expect from a guy who never smiles, and then he says, "Have a good day, doctor," before leaving you to your own volition.

* * *

Your world goes from black one minute, to a hazy contrast the next. Perhaps it's because something is nudging against your side, rocking your hipbone, forcing you to come to. Lazily, you swat the feeling away. It comes again though, more persistent this time, and when you finally open your eyes, attempting to find focus, you regain reality trapped under an ever-so-familiar gaze.

"Wake the hell up," she orders. "I've been trying to call you all week."

The emphasis of her voice is sharp and pithy, as if she's trying to make you perfectly aware of her frustrations. If you were more alert and less troubled, you'd probably demonstrate that bitchy aspersion you're ever so capable of demonstrating—something like _calm your tits_, or _do I look like I give a fuck_? But your mind's not yet ready. Half of it's still left in the hospital, the other half still lethargic with fatigue. And rather than use up all your insults, you produce a sigh and rub your temples in dismay. Even though you don't want to deal with this shit right now, you know what's next. You were kind of expecting it. In fact, the only thing that comes as a surprise about your current situation is that it didn't happen sooner.

So, you play up the charm in your voice and feign pleasantry. "Well, good morning to you too, Quinn."

"Don't you _Quinn_ me. Learn how to answer the damn phone."

You're happy she at least gives you the opportunity to pull yourself somewhat together. She allows you to sit up, stretch your arms, twist your back and wipe the sleep from your eyes before the interrogation begins. "Care to tell me why I had to come all the way here just to talk to you?"

"Because you were in the neighborhood?"

Her eyes roll. "Guess again."

"Because you really like the way my ass looks in pajama bottoms?" You shrug nonchalantly, looking down at your boy shorts and tank top. Her eyes tell you she's really not impressed with your attempt at humor, though.

"Stop being an inconsiderate bitch, Santana," she says. "You could've been abducted for all I know." It's a pitiful remark, and you just stand there, watching the way her arms fold across her chest. It's odd how perfectly controlled her facial features remain when she's this vulnerable—like she's trying to display every bit of confidence she has, just so you won't know she really cares.

You can't help it. You let out a short, half-choked laugh, and amid her anger brazenly say, "Fabray, this is Cleveland, not a fucking Taylor Lautner movie; I'm not getting abducted."

Her tone goes soft, the way it does when she's the most sincere, and, "I just... I worry about you, Santana. You're always working. You go in on your days off. You never eat—"

"What the hell is it with everyone lecturing me about my eating? Jesus fuck."

Even though you're playing up the drama, deep down, her concern touches you. It always has, and it probably plays a large role in why you've been friends for so long. Yet, sometimes you wish she didn't know you so well; because when she stops in her motions and contemplates your prior words, there is certain curiosity that studies you. Like you can feel the wheel as it spins. "Wait, who else has been lecturing you about eating?"

Of course, your first inclination is to lie. "No one."

But you've never been a good liar, and she knows this. Her brow lifts, her eyes find you, and the look stretched across her face offers the simplest of explanations—she doesn't believe you. Not even a little bit.

"Bullshit," is called out. Smoothly, she shifts her weight off her left side, begins to tap her front foot and stares at you readily. It's clear now that you're being scrutinized, and you weren't prepared for such events. To bide time, you turn your gaze away and silently will the gumption for plausible evasions—any equivocation that will do.

Half truths spun are usually the safest. They don't allow you to get too creative with your storytelling, or too mixed up with the lies. Like, it would be conceivable to speak of Brittany as some sweet elderly woman who brings you soup and Snickers, leaves you candy buckets and folds your laundry. She doesn't have to be nearly six feet of sex legs, somehow sweet all the while seductive when she imparts that smile—the one that you're quite certain could paint vivid imagery back into a colorless world.

Or maybe just your world. Add it to the growing list of things pertaining to Brittany Pierce you haven't entirely figured out yet.

"It's... it's no one," you answer. "Just this woman from work."

"Oh." A smirk reaches her lips."Does this woman have a name?"

Quinn's giving you the questioning eyebrow dance. It's not okay with you. You don't like the situation or the inquisition, and you still feel like it's a necessary requirement to answer:

_Brittany_.

"And what does Brittany say about your eating habits?"

With a sigh that implies this is not a conversation you're at all interested in having, "That they aren't habitual enough, I guess?"

Smugly, you hear a "_Hmph_." You know better than to ask for a meaning behind this implicit sound, or the cocky grin visible across her face. Rather than spend too much time attempting to discern it, you swing your legs in front of you and stand. You know what you need, and as you make your way over to the kitchen, you practice patience. On the counter sits your black Keurig coffee maker waiting for your arrival; and as you pull the rich hazelnut blend from the cupboard and empty the contents into the filter paper, the mere smell alone is enough to make your mouth salivate.

A familiar sound fizzles. A potent fragrance permeates. Your stomach grumbles eager as steam rises, and your lips curl into a smile when caramel hot liquid drips down. You're not sure what heaven looks like, or if everyone has their own versions, but you're positive yours would include this.

"So, what does Brittany do?"

Another sigh escapes you. Part of you thought she may have been standing there. You sensed it, and now her voice has definitely confirmed it. You also know what she's doing—digging at you, holding on to any little bit of information you'll give her.

You feign stoicism, and reply like it doesn't matter. "She's a hospice social worker."

You're searching for another coffee cup when you hear that _hrmph_ again. It tells you everything you need to know about the moment—that your apprehension is giving you away, that she clearly recognizes your need for diversion.

You pour a bit of cream into a mug for Quinn and reach for sugar, and when you scoop the first spoonful, your smile reaches high, and your heart fills full...

And fuck, it's like she's now a permanent fixture in your periphery.

"Is she hot?"

You scoff some sort of audible disregard. Because dammit, she's already taking up a majority of your head space, and you really don't want to think about what that means right now. You've got enough on your mind as it is.

"Don't give me that. Just answer the question."

Your immediate internal thought is dear god yes, while your immediate external reaction is to display nothing other than apathy. But still, you end up setting your spoon down a little harder than your initial intent, and you deflect a little more blatantly than you would like to publicly exhibit.

"I don't fucking know, Quinn."

But you do know. She _knows_ you know.

"Really?" She challenges.

You compile your best impressionable word choice. "Like I said, I don't know."

She squints and eyes you carefully. "Well, it's a shame you don't know, because it just so happens that a _Brittany_ has called you twice since I got here. And apparently, she even likes to give wink faces in her text messages."

Your stomach ascends before it descends while Quinn dangles your Blackberry between her fingers, displaying two missed call prompts across the bright lit screen. Slowly you become cognizant of how heavily darkness is prevailing around you, and the 10:15 flashing on the stove tells just how long you've been out. It's then that realization hits you in the most revealing of fashions. You bite your bottom lip, face palm your forehead, and let out an elongated self-whisper.

"Shit."

You forgot. You fucking forgot.

Well, you didn't forget; you just slept through your dinner plans with Brittany.

Forgetful or sleepy—you're not actually sure which one sounds more pathetic.

Hastily, you reach for your phone, but Quinn retracts her hand too quickly. "Ah ah," she sounds mischievously.

"Quinn, give me the fucking phone."

"Not until you tell me who she is."

Lacking patience, "I already told you, she works with me. We've been talking about a patient I had to refer down to hospice. Now give me the fucking phone."

It's not a bold-faced lie. You did write a referral for hospice this morning, you just didn't consult a certain blonde social worker about the matter yet.

If you're being honest, you don't think it's a conversation you could have with her. Your mind can only handle a finite amount of emotions at once.

Quinn isn't put off when you stare angry daggers at her, and beneath your gaze, you're able to tell she still isn't convinced. It makes perfect sense why. You've never been one to interact with your coworkers and share phone calls, especially at this hour, with this amount of elusiveness.

Yet, there's something about this—some push or pull that makes you feel like it isn't necessary to divulge information. You're still not sure what's happening, or what could even possibly manifest itself into existence; yet, whatever you're feeling, whatever it is, you know it's meant to be between you and Brittany, and no one else.

"Yeah, okay," she spits sarcastically, and you know she isn't happy with your lack of telling.

You begin flipping through your messages, and scan for the missed ones. The first text: _Hey San, are we still on for tonight? And another, sent just over an hour ago: Are you working now? Should I wait up?_

Something in your lungs sink. Or you sink. Either way, it pretty much leaves you feeling like the world's biggest dick.

Quickly, you type back:_ I fell asleep. Just woke up. I'm really sorry. Should we try again for later this week?_

A weight of disappointment hits you as your thumb taps send. The truth is, you were really looking forward to her making you dinner. A lot. And after this act of douche-baggery, you seriously doubt she's going to be asking you again.

"You look pretty concerned over 'some woman' right now,'" Quinn teases.

"Fuck off, Fabray."

She throws her hands up in defeat. "Your words, not mine." While the tone is teasing, you know she's only half-joking.

"Look, some of us actually work normal hours," she says, throwing back the last bit of coffee you made her. "I have to go, but seriously San, we need to talk. No more avoiding me. Can you do lunch next week?" Her eyes tell you she's serious, so you refrain from an inappropriate joke and nod your head in response.

She gathers her purse and swings it over he shoulder in one quick motion. "Well, since you seem to be responding to your work Blackberry these days, I'll text you on that tomorrow." You don't miss the way she gives you a wry, forgiving smile and winks just as she's walking to the door. You may even blush a little bit.

You call out bye, and after Quinn leaves, you look around your apartment, kind of lost. You wish Dr. Yuik hadn't subtly reminded you to stay home. You don't normally have this much time on your hands, and it's been even longer since you've had over eight hours of sleep.

Sleep really does make you feeling fucking glorious, energized. Hungry. You think you may even go somewhere, perhaps do something semi-normal—like some domestic grocery shopping kind of shit.

Why the fuck not?

You're contemplating what you would actually buy at the grocery store when your phone buzzes again.

_It's cool. I just finished making dinner. You can just come now if you want._

You close your eyes and reopen them, still making sure you read the text correctly.

Because the time on your phone reads 10:46 PM.

Um.

_Dinner? Now? Don't you work early in the morning, though?_

A response immediately follows, and you can't help but smile at it.

_Just come, silly._

Nerves. Relief. Apprehension. Fluster—all accurate depictions of your current state.

You don't know why you do, but you don't even think twice when you send back Ok. Rather, you concentrate on time, and how much she's probably already spent waiting on you. Your shower is one with quickness—six minutes. You're not even certain you legitimately wash anything, but the water is hot enough to at least give off the illusion you're clean. You make yourself presentable. Another twelve minutes of blow drying your hair. Dressing takes three. The ripped jeans and tight shirt you throw on don't smell like hospital, so you figure they're already a step above the normal attire she sees you in, yet still adequate enough to appear like you put forth effort.

Besides, it's just Brittany, right?

Just...

_her._

Seven minutes of driving gets you to your desired location. She lives in a nicer area than you; it has a little more curb appeal and a lot less graffiti. When you pull in the driveway and smell some sort of lingering teriyaki aroma, you smile because you know you're in the right place. You pull out your Blackberry and tell her so.

_I'm here._

Slowly your feet make their way across the dew-glistened grass, and the bottom of her wooden entry steps is where you wait. You feel a bit awkward as your ass hits the cold surface and your fingers trace the splintered handrail; but when she comes trotting down the stairs on bare feet, with disheveled hair and low-hip-placed pink pyjama bottoms, everything aligns. Her eyes find you, and as if to encourage your courageousness, she imparts a grin that wraps you up in the paradox you know she is.

Or maybe it's her lingering look that makes you feel like that.

One more thing added to the list.

She stops a step before you, lips curled wide, eyes genuinely happy to be looking into yours. She's not even mad that you almost missed this... thing. In fact, you wonder if she's ever been angry at all.

"Hey San." Your knees weaken under her stare.

"Hey Britt." You really hope you're not blushing. It kind of feels like you are, so you avert your look to the ground—anything other than her eyes and lips.

She grins again, and while you know it's just... _her_, just doing indefinable things to you, you're entirely positive that there's something really unfair about the way she smiles.

Especially when it's aimed at you.

Because when you think about things deserved, things earned, and you measure the worth of her lips turned up in that flawless manner, you know it's far past anything you're capable of deserving. In fact, you're at a variance with your mind over the cause. You want to be worthy of her affections. You want to reach a level of adequacy that would allow for you to feel such sentiments.

Yet, you're painfully aware of just how lovely she is, and what she's rightfully procured in this lifetime. You're sure her heaven looks a lot like the perfect aberration, and when it comes to what's deserved, she's entitled to a world built on an axis that spins just for her.

And you just can't with that; you just fucking can't.

"Let's go up," she suggests.

She's grabbing your wrist and pulling you forward, leading you to the unknown. Contemplative, you look at her fingers wrapped around your skin, engrossed with the warmth that ensues. It leaves you a bit fluttery; hesitant; timid. But it's not a placed feeling; the only thing you're certain of is uncertainty and the undistinguished discourse playing in the back of your mind—because you can't figure out what you fear more: the fact that you're completely unaware of your surroundings, or that you trust her enough to lead you anywhere.

And lead she does. She leads you past her front door, through the foyer, into what looks like a small living space. You're stopped, standing there, waiting to see where else she is going to take you. You try to make your nervousness subtle as you shuffle your weight from one heel to another, thankful that the softness of the carpeting beneath your feet doesn't make too much sound.

"This is my place," she says proudly as your eyes scan the vicinity.

It's exactly what you expected it to be—small and quaint, yet charming with peculiar color schemes and oddly placed furniture. Under normal circumstances, you wouldn't even find it to be discernible, but it's so unmistakably her, so entirely fitting, treading that line of halfway incomprehensible.

And for whatever reason, it just... makes sense to you. She makes sense to you.

"It's nice," you say, peering at the zebra-patterned lamp in the corner.

"Thanks."

Silently, you follow her into the kitchen where a cold breeze is blowing in through the wide open window. It smells a bit odd, and you can almost taste a burnt bitterness, yet you see no source of the odor. You only notice the counter where a plate filled with apple slices resides, and what looks to be a stack of sandwiches piled next to it.

She blushes as you grin questioningly at her. "I uh..." her voice is shaky, almost embarrassed as it trails off. "I tried to make enchiladas, and it didn't quite work out."

Because how can you not laugh at that—you do. You chuckle lightly, and try not to gaze at her adoringly, and you just...

"You didn't have to do all that," you say, touched by the effort. "Really, I'm easy to please."

"Good," she says, laughing at herself, "Cause PB and J is all you're getting tonight."

"Wanky."

She smirks over at you, maybe even a bit astounded at your unabashed sexual innuendo, and you really are too. She has this uncanny ability to make everything that's weighty feel like less, and everything that's lighter feel like more.

"You know San," she says in a voice that sounds a lot like a warning, "talking like that, some girls might think you're flirting with them." She hands you a plate with food and a sly grin, leaving a blush to pink your cheeks and spread to the tips of your ears.

And she's nudging your hip with her hip. "The table's over here, if you wanna sit there." It's almost more of an inquiry than anything else, probably to make you feel at ease, and you just shrug in response.

She's walks like she's leading you, but you don't follow immediately. Momentarily still you stand, letting the flush leave your face, and then go to find her in the living room. She's on the couch, her knees spread far apart from one another with her feet tucked under, but she's made sure to leave a vacant space. When she eyes you, she pats the spot softly, and you swallow enough courage to step forward, ignoring the growing palpitations in your chest.

Her smile allows you the comfort of settling in your seat, but you're still unable to comfortably mimic the way she's sitting. Rather than try, you cross your legs and gaze in her direction, equally fascinated with her eating habits as by her sitting preferences. You're intently watching the way she licks the tips of her fingers after every apple slice disappears into her mouth. It reminds you of all the reasons your mother scolded you at the dinner table as a child.

Yet when she does it it's so impossibly fucking cute that you can barely stand it.

"What?" She catches you. You thought you were being subtle, but she's looking at you wide-eyed, maybe even a bit bashful now.

You shake your head. "Nothing."

Your facade remains intact while you quietly eat your sandwich (which surprisingly, is still one of the better meals you've had in a while). Her knee nearly touches your hip and you scoot just a little further away. Twice you attempt to discreetly flicker your eyes in her general vicinity, and twice you catch her staring at you. On both occasions, she blushes and averts her gaze. You've never seen her this shy, and the general feeling it's giving you isn't one you can completely fathom.

Admittedly, you kind of like it.

She pushes her plate away with the remaining crumbs and pats her belly like she's full. "I'm gonna get a drink. Do you want one?"

You bite your lip and momentarily consider this. It's honestly a bad idea, especially when you consider how uninhibited you're going to be after a bit of alcohol, and what that might mean...

As if to persuade you, she fires off a list. "I have beer, red wine, white wine, Stoli, Bailey's..."

Your eyes widen and you laugh. With a touch of sarcasm, "Oh, is that all?"

"I might've bought a few things while I was at the store."

"You _may_ have?"

"Okay, I totally did. I promise though, I'm not an alcoholic."

You raise your brow. "Sure about that? You know what they say, Britt; admittance is the first step."

When she glares at you, you almost wish it wasn't too cute to take seriously. Yet, when she's playfully slapping you on the knee and using it as leverage to bring herself to a stance, you take that entirely seriously.

Because she's just touched you, and there was really no rhyme or reason for it to occur.

"You have to tell me by the time I get to the fridge, or I'm choosing for you," she warns.

You mean to tell her you want beer, but you can't. Your mind's still lost in sixty seconds ago.

Yet you still watch her across the kitchen, standing with the door open, deciding what to bring you. You assume the red wine she's pouring into a coffee mug is meant for you, but when she strides back over to you holding the mug in one hand and a bottle of beer in another, she's giving you the beer.

Reclaiming her seat, her ass plops down on the cushion, her back hits the armrest and her feet land across your lap. You flinch a bit, not expecting it.

More unwarranted touching.

Yet, you can't bring yourself to ask her to stop.

You offer a brief, "Thanks," and she mutters something like _no problem_, but you barely register it. All you're fathoming is how the weight of her legs is pressed against your hip, how her knee resides against your arm, or how the heel of her foot is digging into your inner thigh. You're suddenly hyper-aware of all bits of personal contact.

"San?" she asks.

"Huh?"

"I said you can set that down on the table if you want to."

"Oh."

You lean forward to set the cold bottle on the coffee table, careful not to lose the warmth of her on you. Maybe she senses it, because she shifts just a little closer after the glass finds surface. More contact ensues. You're getting increasingly nervous as her eyes are on you, studying your movements, contemplating the way you wipe leftover perspiration from your hands to your jeans, or how unsure you are of where to place said hands with her feet taking up a majority of your lap.

And it feels like she totally just set you up.

Because now it's a natural reaction to want to put your hands on her. You're resisting the urge to take hold of her heel and knead every tender spot until she lets out those collapsed, breathy breaths you remember, or run your fingers across the back of those lengthy legs, if only to feel the tightening of the muscles in her calves.

Just _her, _you tell yourself.

She leans her head back comfortably against the armrest. "Any big plans on your day off? I don't think I've ever not seen you at work."

You're half-listening, half-focused on the location of touching body parts. The need to assure everything is still at a safe distance is entirely too important. "I dunno. Laundry for sure. A few errands. I was thinking about going grocery shopping."

Her lips tighten as she tries not to laugh. "Well, that's... not what I was expecting."

"Hey, you're the one who said I need to eat more," you tease back.

"No, it's not that. I'm just... impressed, is all."

And that smile again. It tells you about all things that you've never been able to name before. Things like admiration, beauty, understanding; everything that makes you wish for a single moment you could exist on the same plane of worth.

If she were one of your random college collectibles, you'd probably answer something like, _I can be very impressive_; but she's not. And unlike those girls, what she thinks of you matters, and you don't want to come across like an egotistical bastard.

Your moment ends when she nudges you with her foot. Her toes poke your side. You look over, and she's just finished taking a sip of wine when she says to you, "So, tell me stuff."

You smirk. "What kind of stuff?"

"I dunno. Like, stuff that matters."

You look at her a bit lost. "Like..."

"Like... do you have any brothers and sisters?"

Smiling nervously, you shuffle your hands. You reach for your beer because you really need something preoccupying you again, and alas, it's there. You take your time amid the hidden comfort, consuming small, lengthy sips.

And she looks at you. She waits patiently.

She's good at that.

"Um, yeah. I do." You'd leave it at that, but those blue eyes are clearly asking for elaboration, so you slowly comply. "I... have a brother."

"Older?"

"Younger," you correct.

"What's he like?"

"An asshole," you answer honestly, your voice treading the line of discomfort.

"Oh," she says. "I'm sorry to hear that."

You lift your shoulders high and tight, and you shrug. With a designed purpose, your focus lingers on places that aren't Brittany. You don't want to admit that family is a sensitive topic, one you don't really plan on diving into any time soon. The old saying really reverberates with you here that some things are just better left unsaid.

You half expect some sort of comment, but find relief when she doesn't press the topic. What she does do, however, is move. She shifts her weight off of you, swings her legs in front of her, and gets to her feet.

You feel her absence more than you feel her presence.

And when she disappears for a moment, you almost wonder if you should go and look for her; it's plausible that you were just being a total dick, and you should apologize.

Yet, when she returns with a worn box in hand, her expression alludes to nothing of the sort. She sets it down on the table before you, lips slipped into a smile, and you peer over curiously. Your eyes pinpoint the graphics on the top lid and on its own volition, your face shifts to mimic hers.

"Super Nintendo?" you ask with, admittedly, a delighted tone.

"Yup," she states, unraveling a set of grey controller cords. "And Super Mario World, of course."

You don't even try to hide it this time when you look at her; it's deliberate. You feel that push, that swing—a back and forth rocking of your heart. And when she looks up and finds your gaze, holding it there, you give her an appreciative glance that silently tells all that you cannot say.

Because despite only knowing each other a short while, you think, maybe she kinda gets you too.

Yet, there are things in the back of your mind that won't go away. You keep thinking about how fragile life is, and that there are other people that can't be enjoying themselves like this, and you swallow it down.

* * *

Two things happen at 2:49 AM: You've just gotten past the first world, and you've just downed your fifth beer.

And you like how much less you feel.

It's her turn to hold the controller now because you got ate by one of those stupid fucking plants in the tubes. If you're being honest though, it's mostly her that's gotten you this far. She's a Super Mario machine that's been killing it all night long.

You kind of adore that she's a closeted video game dork. You would've never pegged her for it.

There's a lot of things about her you wouldn't necessarily have guessed from the start. She likes to surprise you.

Kind of like your current dilemma. You didn't think she was going to be this...touchy, and you'd love to leave here tonight saying that you didn't break any rules, but that's really difficult to imagine right now. Not when her feet are in your lap again, and her heel is so dangerously close to places it shouldn't be close to...

With a lot of shame, you're welcoming the feeling. Perhaps it's because you're a little drunk, and you so badly want to feel her, no matter how small of a feeling it is.

And when she shifts ever so slightly and her skin brushes the palm of your hand, you falter. Your fingers tense, the muscles in your wrist flex, and you touch. With a slow appreciation, gently you drag your nails down the side of her foot, feeling the softness of flesh under your control.

"Hey, no fair," she whines, immediately retracting her foot. "That's like, sabotage."

It takes you a second to register Mario's demise and indeed realize—it was kind of sabotage.

She isn't even the least bit bothered, though. Her smile never sways. She just extends her arm and hands you the controller, saying You're up. And when her reach lingers, and the tip of her finger touches your finger, it creates a path of tingles traveling up your spine, and down lower...

And you think of neuroscience at its finest. Even when the gentlest part of her touches you here, you feel it there.

"Another beer?" she asks. You don't even think twice. You nod.

She saunters over to the kitchen, and your expectancy concludes that she will go straight for the fridge. Yet, she doesn't. She begins opening up cupboards high above her head, her toes raising straight to tip forward as her arm reaches. You admire the display of her taut back muscles in that tight tank top. And her ass; it's just there in all its glory and perfect roundness, reminding you with vivid imagery of those adorable underwear she had on. Drunk enough to stare shamelessly, you lean back a little more in the seat that allots a flawless view, biting your bottom lip, digging your nails into the skin of your thighs.

It's evident what's happening here. God is obviously playing a hand in slowly driving you mad.

The funny thing is, you don't have a fucking clue what she's looking for. You just hope it's lost in the abyss of nowhere.

A moment later she's still rummaging and you're still gaping. You know you can't stay in this position forever—with your head resting behind your linked hands and your eyes pinpointed in her direction—but another few seconds seem necessary.

And of course, it's that moment she chooses to turn around and catch your gaze, leaving your stomach to flutter endlessly.

Fuck.

With an accusing smirk, "Were you just staring at my butt?"

A thousand awkward fucks.

"No," you lie. But it isn't a lie that's believable. Especially with cheeks that can't possibly be any fucking redder, or when your answer is beyond any reason of belief.

Casually she grins, and this time she does open the fridge. She grabs a single beer and dangles it between her first two fingers, letting the condensation drip off the sides. And as she begins that slow walk towards you, your awareness is challenged with heavy spins. It's so much like every fantasy you've had in the last few months—long strides and confident hips which sway in an entirely effortless manner. And when she stops just before your knees, hovering above your gaze, you hold your breath. A cold bottle is offered to you, and you take it, praying that some form of pity will be taken on you.

Because you're only human, and god help you, she is some inhuman sort of sexy.

And she doesn't say anything at all.

But she doesn't need to, because heat is still rising. Your knees quiver. Between your legs pulsates. Your mind flashes holograms of you grabbing her by the hips and fast-fucking her against the wall, and your eyes stare at her partially glistened lips.

She's staring at yours.

You think, if only you were just a little bit better, you might kiss her.

It's a notion you've continually contemplated, and it dives further into your cognition until all confidence is lost. Your gaze falters and you become unable to tell where and how she's looking at you.

She notices, though; after several minutes of sitting next to you, she notices your denial of noticing.

"Everything okay?" she asks.

You bite your lip and nod, recognizing that she knows you're not. But you also think she knows better than to prod.

This time, she doesn't surprise you.

Her smile delicately dissipates any worry of inquiry, and between the alcohol fully coursing in your system and the resumption of Mario, life gets easier. Her laugh returns when you get your ass kicked by a big ass ghost, and your mind feels like fresh snow. Sounds are less pronounced, but feelings are vastly clear.

You like the levitation. It allows you perceive things in a different way. Under normal circumstances, you would have never considered the fact that she has never once looked at you with disappointed eyes. You think it's part of what perpetuates your level of comfort; like she knows that you would never purposefully let her down, and if you could, you'd paint her an existence that only consisted of all her favorite things.

You don't love many things, but you really, really love her eyes.

And you love those eyes even more when she's struggling to keep them open at half past four in the morning. You forgot that unlike yourself, she actually gets up at normal hours of the day; and with it being a weekday, it's likely that tomorrow is one of those days.

"_Britt_," you affectionately call to her. With fluttering eyelids and bent knees, she groans. She's not actually answering you; not really. What you get is more of a hum of an intonation, a general half-wakened inquiry, and you smile at her slumberous state.

You stand over her, offering a touch of your hand. "Britt, I'm gonna help get you to bed and go, okay?"

Another groan and she grips your wrist. She holds you tight and hard, and makes a sound that echoes a lot like no. It's confirmed when she tiredly shakes her head and pulls you closer.

And after she mumbles something barely comprehensible against your ear. "Don't let me fall asleep, San."

You chuckle. "A little late for that."

"Not yet," she pleads, eyes open again, but this time, fighting against falling.

"It's going on five in the morning. Come on. Let me help you to bed," you insist. Again, her head shakes.

"No, no, no. Keep me awake."

"And how do you expect me to do that?" Your voice traces sarcasm.

"Mmmm. Sweet lady kisses."

"I think you're drunk and exhausted," you explain.

"I think you're pretty," she replies.

And you blush. You bite your lip and you fight a smile that feels like it means something. "I..." It's there on the tip of your tongue: _I think you're pretty, too._ But you stop yourself.

"Just wrap your arms around my neck. I'll help you," you command.

She's not really complying, but mostly because she's having too hard of a time staying awake. So you take her hands and you do it yourself. You pull her up to you, and like a sudden wave, the weight is there. She's entirely leaned against you, and she hasn't been this close since...

And it's a lot like a drunken slow dance.

Hip against hip, knees against knees. Her breasts press up against you, her nose nuzzles the crook of your neck, and against it she half-awake requests "Will you stay?"

"Britt..." You sigh. She clutches. Her hand finds the fold of your shirt, and with a pull, she begs.

You're probably in no position to be carrying her anywhere, so it's not like you're completely disregarding the offer. You're just worried about the implications of sleeping here. You worry over what she might consider it to be, or what you might want it to mean. And you worry about what you should be thinking about, rather than how easy it would be for you to lean in and touch her lips with yours.

You'd rather worry about dancing.

So you do. You lead her down the hallway and into her bedroom. Her knees hit the side of the bed, her back falls backwards. You don't mean to set her down that quickly, and if you weren't feeling your own version of fuzzy, you'd probably be more concerned. But it doesn't really matter. Her breathing is already finding a steady rhythm that tells you she's going to pass out quickly, and by the time you pull the covers back and get her on top of the sheets, she does just that.


	6. Chapter 6

Your mind sits at the edge of consciousness, and even though your eyes aren't quite ready to open, your back is feeling a little stiffer than normal—confined, pressed down, almost like there is an unfamiliar weight on your upper chest. It's not uncomfortable, but you wouldn't define it as comfortable either; so you shift. You dig your heels into a softer than usual cushion and scoot yourself downward, only to feel an insistent soft tickle brushing across your neck. An audible rolling purr fills your ears, and when your eyes flutter open, you take a long look at the scenery before you. It's nothing but gray and black stripes, thick fur, and thin whiskers only a few short inches from your face. Some kind of eye patch covers one of its green eyes.

Your own eyes widen. Your throat burns. Your usual surroundings have vanished, and nothing about this is ideal. Not at all.

You will your mind to move backwards, but concentration is taken from you when you hear a sharp sizzle in the background. Grease pops. A delectable smell of smoke-cured apples and salted bacon permeates the air, leaving a wistful salivation to pool beneath your tongue.

_Well, you're definitely not at home._

Your memory travels through the haze and recollects your previous day's happenings. You were with Brittany. You drank. You played video games. And when you went to go leave in the early morning, you dawdled—partially because you found a shelf full of Brittany's high school cheerleading photos, but also because you weren't in any shape to drive. You figured you would bide your time looking at her in that cute red skirt, and leave once you sobered up just a little bit more.

This was not good planning on your part.

Because now you're here. You're on her couch, and you're trapped beneath who you can only assume to be Lord Tubbington—and judging by the celestial aroma surrounding you, you're quite certain an adorable blonde is patiently awaiting you in the kitchen with those dangerous legs.

Your heart flutters nervously at the thought.

You push the cat off of you abruptly and he lands flat on his paws, but still offers an audible dissatisfaction of the gesture. The sound apparently prompts curiosity from the other room, and you hear an approaching soft shuffle of footsteps.

You wish you could control the way your pulse quickens from just knowing she's sharing the same vicinity as you.

You can't though. Not when only seconds later she's standing directly before you, apron tied around her waist, spatula in hand, the curve of her ass perfectly rounded in a pair of black skinny jeans. The plaid button up she wears hangs loosely off her shoulders. Your mind fills with visions of what tomorrow's outfit could be, or the day after that, or the day after that.

It's impetuous. Your mouth drops; your abilities falter. Consequently, you stare.

She smiles.

"Hi."

In a sleep controlled haze, you smile, too. "Hi."

"I hope Tubbs didn't wake you up. I told him not to. He's been trying to show you his Halloween costume all morning. Did you still sleep okay?" You look over at the cat who's insistently attempting to remove the eyepatch from his face.

You have to laugh in spite of everything, because oddly enough, you slept amazing. You still haven't quite pinpointed why, but you think you may have a theory. When you look around, your mind in compare and contrast mode, you notice Brittany's apartment isn't any nicer than yours. The walls are scuffed, the cupboards are old and worn, and the window actually allows more street traffic sound; but unlike your place, hers has color. It's vibrant. There's decor, crazy lava lamps, worn furniture, and a feeling of _settled_.

Still, it's kind of a silly notion, and you shake it off by just nodding in her direction. "I did. Thank you."

"Good. I'm making breakfast. I hope you like eggs and bacon."

You momentarily smile bigger, because you like bacon. A lot. But something inside your mind is tugging at you, like a voice of reason, urging your thoughts somewhere else.

When she leads you to the kitchen, you try not to let her see how your eyes are flitting about for a clock, narrowing in on the time. You note how the little hand is already striking twelve, and you can't ignore the slight panic working its way inside you. You didn't go into work yesterday. You didn't get to make sure Blaine is being properly taken care of in ICU, or that he got an appropriate analgesic, or double check that latest midline incision in room 9.

It's even more unsettling because you know she's supposed to be at work, too.

You should've went home last night. It never should've went this far.

Biting your bottom lip and feigning bravery, you lean your palm against the flat surface of the counter, your voice steady and ready to inform her that your departure is imminent. Yet, as she's scooping bacon, buttering toast and sliding eggs on two separate plates, the thought loses itself on the tip of your tongue. It's something to do with the way she's carrying on with perfect equanimity—like there isn't a worry in the world—that stops you. The time she spends, the effort she exerts doing these thoughtful things for you is vastly overwhelming. The feeling becomes even more so when her gaze carries over to you, blue eyes leaving a warm stirring in the crux of your chest, urging you to stay just a little bit longer.

Because right now you're looking at her, and no amount of time doing so could ever be time wasted.

She doesn't say anything, so you don't either. Rather, you practice patience. You sit down at the table and wait until she sets a plate down before you, your fingers fiddling with your fork as she finds the seat across from you. It's then that you inspect your food—steam rising from your flawlessly scrambled eggs, a lump of melted butter sliding across your hot toast. The smell triggering your olfactory senses makes you think this may end up being the best breakfast of your adulthood.

You're so not wrong.

It's actually a little bit embarrassing how fast you end up eating the bacon. It's savory, greasy and everything delicious in this world. You have zero shame.

This isn't something missed on Brittany's part, because she starts chucking softly when you take a bite of your toast and butter drizzles down your chin, onto your t shirt. Your cheeks blush. Real fucking smooth.

"Got somewhere to be?" She teases.

You raise your brow, now acutely aware of the speed of your movements. You make sure to slow your hands drastically. "Kind of. Don't you?"

Her lips press together tightly, but her demeanor is full of merriment. "I don't have to be to work for another two hours, so no, not really."

Your eyes go wide in surprise. "Oh. I thought you had to work this morning." It's more of a question than it is a statement.

She shrugs. "I usually like to go in early, but we don't have set schedules or anything. I can go in late if I want to."

You drop your eyes to your plate while your mind gathers past scenarios in picture form. It makes sense. You've seen her at the hospital plenty of times later in the day.

You just want to make sure she's not doing things because of you. _Complicated_ things.

When your gaze lifts from the table and meets hers, it's like she knows what's on your mind.

Smiling, "It's not a big deal," she reassures. "Totally worth working late for. Last night was awesome. I haven't had that much fun in a long time."

The same is true for you as well. You hadn't had a night that good since a cold evening in March; and well...you try to think about that as little as possible.

Keyword: try.

You shift in your seat, and she looks at you. She can tell that you're getting antsy, and her stare softens and her mouth moves, "Your shift starts at six, right?"

You nod.

"But you need to go in early?"

You bite your bottom lip and nod again, this time more slowly.

"Okay. Do you think you can have dinner with me later? During your break?" Her pitched voice is almost as hopeful as her glistening eyes.

You sigh at the sight.

"I want to, Britt. I really do. But I might not have time, and I don't want you waiting on me." You're trying to figure out why all of the sudden people are wanting to monopolize your lunch breaks. They're pretty much few and far between as it is.

"I won't wait. Just text me and let me know if you have time. If you don't, you don't. I'll go by myself." You catch the way she smiles and shrugs just as she says it.

Like..._everything_ is that simple.

How you admire her simplicity. It's not an outlook you could ever possess.

You grin softly and say okay just as easily as she requested dinner, finding yourself rewarded with a quick turn of her lips. Her eyes shine, her smile stretches wide, and you can't help but fashion ideas of how much you want this to be a regular occurrence, if only aimed at you. You've grown to love the way your stomach flutters and responds to her reactions.

Yet, what you fear is the underlying reality—the knowledge of knowing, that you just fucking _know_ her happiness has somehow become essential to your own.

Or worse, that hers relies on you.

That concept stays in the back of your mind when she smiles after you offer assistance in doing the dishes, but she declines. What she does do, however, is walk you to her front door. She stands just a few short inches behind you as you slip on your shoes, and eyes you carefully as you meet her gaze. It's a look you recognize, but it's also laced with something else you can't quite name. Your heart lightly pounds against your ribcage, your breath expels slower than usual, and you try so fucking hard not to stare at her lips.

You wouldn't notice her rocking nervously on her toes if it didn't make her that much taller than you. It's pretty obvious though when you randomly have to look up an extra inch to keep her eyes.

"San, I'm..." her voice trails softly.

You try not to fall in love with the way she says your name, or the way she seems to lose her thought process amid every attempt of stringing _San_ together in a sentence.

_I'm...what?_

It's then you realize the uncertainty fluctuating in your mind. You don't know if you want her to finish that statement or let it dissipate, because your heart already stops and starts whenever you look at her.

Yet, when she links her pinky with yours and leans in closer, resting her forehead against your cheek, you don't fight it. The heightened awareness allows you to become so very cognizant of distance, smell, touch. You feel every gust of her shaky breath just as it barely touches the line of your jaw, or the light fluttering in your stomach when her words get lost against your skin.

"...I'm really glad you stayed."

And when her lips brush your cheek and her mouth whispers _have a great day_, you can't help but feel nothing but fortune for such a blissful, serendipitous occurrence.

* * *

You kinda wish you weren't smiling like a dummy, but it's unwavering. Your stomach is content, your freshly shaven legs are like silk against the inside of your scrub bottoms, your hair has cooperated in the most accommodating of fashions today, and you can still feel the warmth of the softest lips you've ever had the luxury of experiencing against your cheek.

Never has your heart been higher.

You're reading log notes from the day prior when a familiar voice cuts through the silence. Your gaze flits over and finds Kurt making quick strides to the nurse's station. The first thing you notice is the yellow cape draping from his back, the green spandex traveling up his legs, and the thin black fabric covering his eye region. A giant R is plastered across his chest, green boots reside where normally white canvas sneakers would be, and you can't help the way your mouth drops upon staring.

It takes a really comfortable man to wear leggings that tight. Just sayin.'

He stops before you without animation, like his wardrobe is totally commonplace and within normal everyday measures.

So you ask. You just have to. "Um, why do you look like you're getting ready to star in Batman's gayest porno?"

His eyebrows arc with a squint, but his smirk tells you he finds your joke endearing. "Not that I would expect you to understand things like spirit and happiness, but just because you choose not to participate in events like Halloween does not give you the right to make fun of others."

"Because happiness is completely intertwined with impersonating Robin Hood, men in really tight tights?" You pause for a moment, contemplative. "And also, are those even sanitary?"

His eyes roll. "Sue said I could wear them."

"Sue's an idiot."

"You know, If you're not nice to me, I'm making you wear a princess crown."

"Like hell you are."

He places his hands on his hips, and looks at you with a flushed face. "As much as I'm enjoying your candor right now, today has been a shit-storm." Between the strain of his voice and the sullen demeanor, it's painfully obviously he wants you to inquire about whatever seems to be the problem.

Alright. You'll bite. "What's your deal, Hummel?"

"That woman—she's the antichrist. I'm not going back in there," Kurt asserts, nodding towards Rachel Berry's room. "Not unless you're bringing me a cross and a priest."

You can't hide your laughter.

"That bad, huh?"

His words are quick, hands animated as he steps away from you and motions to the computer. "Seriously. This is exactly why I'm gay. Never trust something that bleeds for seven days and doesn't die." He stops for a moment, pulling meds from his station before he picks back up again. "She's on a no liquid or food diet until her ultrasound tomorrow morning, and Santana, sweet Jesus, she's a Kathy Bates monologue away from scaring me shitless."

You smile and continue flipping through pages, watching Kurt watch you. "What, is Karofsky off today?"

Kurt scoffs. "Useless is on his lunch and leaves at six, so I'd say he's about done doing work for the day."

You have no comment for this, because any that you would provide certainly wouldn't fall under the professional category.

So you ask, "How is Berry doing?"

"Define doing."

You roll your eyes. "Her infection, of course."

"So-so. Still waiting for labs."

"Alright, we can go over those when I get back. I need to get to the ICU. Have you been up there yet?"

His eyes sink and you can see his effervescence dissipate.

"No," he answers bleakly.

You just nod your head, understanding all that really isn't being said. "I'll be back," you offer, and make your way to the stairs, silently leaving behind a weighted path. Once you're hidden from Kurt's gaze, you take a moment's time. You lean against the wall and collect your composure, trying to let the feeling that floods you dissipate.

The settling silence helps.

But the short stair climb ends quicker than you anticipated, and you're not nearly prepared to enter those double doors. Only now that you're standing before them do you wish you would've come up with a better executed plan to experience an emotional barrage.

You can't just stand around forever though, so you slide your badge through the wall-mounted card reader and wait for the electronic doors to open. Once you move through the corridor and down the hall, you don't hear the same sounds you're used to; rather, you feel a quiet intensity. The light-quick shuffled footsteps are an oxymoronic additive to the silent heavy.

Your movements are slow, elongated as you make your way to the clerks station to obtain room numbers, and once you're standing outside the one desired, you're still not ready.

Because you know it's going to hurt.

And even though you knew it from the start, you don't think you'll ever be fully prepared for this particular brand of pain.

Your pulse beats in a rhythm that mimics his heart monitor, and it's oddly soothing. It gives you enough courage to make small steps into the room, yet you cowardly avert the eyes that rendered you fearful just a few days prior. Instead, you pinpoint your gaze to the patches of skin on his arms and study the blotched patterns that have formulated since your last encounter.

It's not any better, but it's not any worse. From your point of view, that means something—somethings based in numerical facets that take, tell and trade with time.

Minutes that equate into hours and days and weeks that can't just merely be counted.

When you finally work yourself brave enough to find his face, you see his eyes are closed and his head rests against the headrest, chest slowly rising and falling with ease. The sight allows you let go of your own restless sigh, and you reach for the chart hanging near the foot of the bed. Technically, Blaine Anderson isn't your patient anymore, so really, any information on this chart is not your concern.

But you are concerned, and a mere technicality isn't going to stop you from looking.

You peer down and scan for information, and narrow in on the the name of attending doctor _M.D T. Schuester_.

As in related to _Will_ Schuester? Or possibly married?

For their sake, you hope not. That would be fucking tragic.

You keep your eyes fixed on the page and continue to read. Diagnosis - _Stage 3 Acute Graft Versus Host Liver Disease._

Upon inquiring of recent lab results, you see that the patient's red blood cell count has continued to drop. It's not a good sign on your end, because chance of survival drastically decreases after the severe set of pancytopenia. When your eyes shift lower, you also notice the pharmaceuticals dispersed. The physician added Prednisone to the prophylactic regimen, but it's only a preventive that reduces incidence of the disease. You're not sure why Schuester would do that. There are no steroids prescribed in drop form to help with his eyes, and you just feel like this is a pre-death certificate. It's ignoring new steroids and breakthrough medications that have been better proven than previous results.

After standing there for a few more moments reading things over, you grow anxious. Your right foot taps up and down. Your left fingers drum the clipboard in tandem to the beat. For some reason, it's like the blood in your veins is now traveling at liquid speed and your pulse is racing to catch up with the tempo you've created.

On a restless whim, you gingerly make your way over to the nurse's station, stopping before a cute redhead in patterned scrubs. The smile you've painted on your face is one based in fallacies, and the voice you inflect is of an exuberant nature. "Hi. I'm Dr. Lopez from L6. I was looking for Dr. Schuester?"

"Oh, she just went into the conference room. Can I take a message?"

You shake your head, thinking better of it. "No, thanks anyway."

When you make it back down to your floor, immediately, you ensconce yourself in work to distract your inner thoughts. You had a feeling this would happen—that there would be differentiating opinions in proper care and decision making, and you wish he could've just stayed on transplant all along...

You're collecting lab results for early morning rounds when you get the slightest glance of Karofsky. He nods in your direction upon noticing you.

"Lopez," he says, offering a half wave.

You just nod rather than address him back. You hate not attaching earned acronyms to names, and while it's still technically "earned," you still can't bring yourself to give him such a title.

Upon entering the Hummel forbidden room, the first thing you notice is the fact that Berry is sitting up in her bed, watching MTV, drinking a bottle of orange juice, and like...

_the fuck?_

"Excuse me!" she calls out for your attention once she notices you, but you're already out of the room, searching for Karofsky.

You find him at the nurse's station, feet propped up on the counter, smile aimed at one of the certainly too young for him female care partners. You tap his shoulder and beckon him to follow you. Once he stands and you feel him trailing behind you, your feet urge him a little farther along toward a secluded area.

"Lopez, what's your deal?" he asks as you finally come to a halt.

"Um, you do realize that your patient is drinking juice, right?"

He squints his eyes in attempt to focus, like he's trying to understand. It's a sign that you've clearly underestimated his incompetence, and when he finally begins, the tone of his voice is enough to make you vehemently angry. "Well, yeah. She complained that nobody gave her anything to eat or drink all day, so I went downstairs and got her a juice."

You feel a trembling liquid frustration begin to travel through your blood, and it makes your voice turn that much sharper than usual. "Yes, that's correct. She wasn't supposed to have any food or liquid today. She's supposed to have an ultrasound in the morning. Her pancreas levels are elevated, Karofsky. How can you not know this? She's your patient. You ordered the test."

His mouth drops, and fuck—you can't even deal with the way he looks right now, all stuck on stupid. You're two seconds away from losing it.

He continues to just stare at you. He has no response.

"You know what?" You wave your hands in the air in defeat. "Your patient, your problem. This isn't my deal." You narrow your shoulders in attempt to slip out of the way, but he catches your arm.

"Lopez, come on. Help me out here," he pleads.

You scoff. "There's nothing to help. This is basics 101, and I'm not gonna be the one that explains to the docs why _your_ V.I.P patient still doesn't have an ultrasound tomorrow."

He licks his lips and nervously tugs on his fingers, like he's trying to regain control of the situation. "Well," he trails off... "How would they know I'm the one that even gave it to her? It could've been anyone else. I was at lunch, and it was only you and Kurt..." The fact that he looks you directly in the eyes when he says it just makes the temperature of your blood reach new levels, and a dark force entice a snap in your control.

Brashly, you take a step closer to him, never allowing your stern gaze to waver.

"You really are a special kind of shitbag, aren't you?" You keep your voice low in case anyone walks by. "You wanna put this on someone else to save your own ass, so be it. But the difference between you and me is that I know what I'm doing, and at some point, everyone else is going to figure out that you don't have a fucking clue. So you might as well save yourself from the future embarrassment and just deal with it now, rather than later, before you really hurt somebody."

You move back and find his shrunken eyes avoiding yours, you know you made your point. His reaction tells you that he really wasn't expecting you to say so much, and to be honest, you don't quite think you had planned it, either.

Yet when you walk away first, leaving him alone in the hallway, you're not sure if you feel better or worse.

* * *

It's just after nine when your phone starts buzzing, but you keep it hidden in the confines of your pocket. You've been in the middle of rounds since seven, and it doesn't appear your meeting is going to end any time soon. As a matter of fact, you haven't even gotten around to discussing relatively important issues yet.

Dr. Yuik has been uncharacteristically quiet this evening, Karofsky abundantly annoying, and you're trying not to get frustrated at the fact that midnights have become more of a hindrance than a help to your career. Because he primarily works day shifts, Karofsky always seems to be the one getting more surgical experience and recognition. It's been a month now since you've been transferred, and you feel like more of a babysitter than you do a doctor.

After Dr. Kellman tells Karofsky that yet again he will be assisting him with a kidney transplant tomorrow, your fists tighten and your jaw clenches. You shift uncomfortably in your entirely too firm chair, just trying to make it through this day without losing your composure for a second time.

All questions aimed at you are answered shortly and to the point, and when Rachel Berry finally comes up in conversation, your ears pique with interest and your eyes travel to your fellow peers.

"How were her vitals today? Have we received ultrasound results yet?" Kellman asks Karofsky.

Your eyes lock on his, and his chin slightly trembles as he fumbles. "Uh, well, yeah..."

Jesus fuck, out with it already.

Finally, after listening to him stutter for long enough, you intervene. "Berry had liquid intake today. The ultrasound will have to be pushed back..."

Dr. Kellman gives you a confounded look. "Wait, what? Why?"

"I'm not sure what happened. You'll have to ask Dr. Karofsky about that," you simply state.

He gives you a fearful expression as everyone in the room studies him. "I uh, I don't know what happened, either. When I came back from lunch, she had juice, and..." Karofsky fabricates.

Anger seems to be your heightened emotion of choice today, but this time it comes in heavier waves that before. So you bite your lip until you taste wrought iron and your flesh tears hotly, and you concentrate on the pain rather than anything else. It helps a little more when you dig your nails into your upper thigh, embracing the sharp burn.

"Who was in charge while you were gone?" Kellman inquires.

"The head nurse, I guess."

"What do you mean, you guess?"

You dig harder, because you swear to god, if he tries to pin this on Kurt, you will take him down.

Dr. Kellman's face is red as he stands and leaves the room, presumably to inquire about this afternoon's staff. You watch as Karofsky sits quietly in his seat, being sure to never meet your focus. Perhaps he knows you're planning to eye him disgustedly.

_Fucking coward._

Nothing about the error with Berry is addressed upon Kellman's return. The latter is possibly worse, because for the remainder of the meeting, it mostly feels like you're being patronized. You're quite certain that your attending doctor is going to begin micromanaging you from this point forward, and even though it wasn't explicitly stated that error was your fault, by the way he keeps looking at you, you think he's implicitly blaming you.

At 10:30 when you're finally leaving the conference room, you stand by the door and wait for Dr. Yuik. Just as he's stepping through the threshold, you grab his attention.

"Doctor, I was wondering if I could have just a minute of your time?" He peers down at his watch momentarily, as if he's deciding.

Finally, "A brief one, yes," he says.

You pull him to the side and begin talking quickly, not wanting to waste a second. "I just wanted to talk to you about our recent patient transfer, Anderson. He's up in the ICU now."

Yuik nods. "Yes. What about him?"

With a deep exhale, "Well, I saw him today, and I'm not sure about the treatment plan."

"Dr. Schuester has been around for many years," he explains, his thick accent punctuating certain syllables in the recognizable only to him fashion. "ICU has a great team. I'm sure he is in good hands."

"Yes, but they're using old methods. ECP and Ciclosporin are fine, but there have been really good results with signal transduction inhibitors—"

"Dr. Lopez, while I don't disagree with you and I admire your passion, it's out of our hands."

Before he can walk away, you try one last time. "Look, can't you just talk to her? See if she'll try something a little more modern? It can't hurt..."

You know what you're asking him and you understand the complication. Established relationship or not, telling another doctor how to treat their patient isn't really exactly ideal.

"I'll see what I can do," he finally says after a moment's time.

Your smile lifts and you make certain to eye him appreciatively enough that he can notice. You're sure he does when his own lips turn to match yours, and in some peculiar way, you think it reminds you of the way your own father used to smile at you.

"Thanks."

"Good night, Dr. Lopez," he says, moving past you.

Once he's out of distance, you begin looking around, thinking of all the things you still have yet to do. It's strange how verbal communication like today can exhaust you to the point of physical labor seeming insurmountable.

Just as you're going into a patient's room, it's your Blackberry that begins buzzing against your hip for the fifth time this evening. You fish it out of your pocket and begin scanning your missed alerts, making sure nothing imperative needs to be addressed. It's then that you remembered someone kind of important, and their kind of sweet request this morning.

_Do you think you'll have time for dinner?_

The message was sent two hours ago, but you figure better late than never.

_Just got finished with rounds. You still awake?_

You slide the phone back in your pocket and begin moving quickly, logging notes from your rounds and checking up on patients that are still awake. One ends up needing a new dressing that takes more time than anticipated, and when you find your way back into the hall twenty minutes later, you're greeted by a familiar smile.

"Hey, San," she offers, and your head turns.

And it's not like you haven't seen attractive women before, because you certainly have. Falling into that category yourself has helped in earning such a privilege, and college was good to you in that respect. But the fact that this woman who happens to be vastly amazing _and_ incredibly attractive is standing before you in some kind of...getup, well, it does things to you.

You lick your lips and swallow thick. "Uh, hey, Britt..."

You're staring because with the pink high heeled boots and tight leather matching suit, you think you know what she's meant to be, and you think it may be fulfilling every childhood fantasy you never had the right of having.

With a weak voice you guess, "...Power ranger?"

She nods with flushed cheeks, and it's quite evident she's privy to your leering. You force your gaze away and clear your throat, as though such a gesture would make it seem like it never happened.

It's just...people like her are tremendously unfair to less fortunate looking society.

And she might be the most delicious exudate of sex appeal you've ever seen.

"I've never worked in a hosptial that lets the staff dress up for Halloween," you admit. "It's kind of awesome."

She shrugs that shrug again—the one that you've begun to understand is meant to downplay her accomplishments. "Well, it's kind of a tradition for hospice. On holidays we generally do something themed and visit all the kids on each floor. Halloween is usually one of my favorites," she smiles. "This year, we each dressed up—"

"Like a different Power Ranger," you finish for her.

"Yeah." She grins before eyeing you curiously, almost like she wants you to know she is. It makes you fall silent, leaving you to continuously fight the urge to look at her.

"So, do you have time to go downstairs and eat, or..."

The gentle urgency dispels your trance and your eyes check the time. "Um, yeah, just let me tell my staff I'm heading out for a bit."

After letting everyone at the nurse's station know you're going to lunch, she follows you to the elevator, and you stand there, waiting to take the slow ride down to the main floor.

Softly in the background you hear the swinging melody of_ Ho Hey_, and you note the way she's elusively tapping her foot and gently humming to the chorus—like if it's soft enough, you won't be able to notice it.

_You belong with me_

_You're my sweetheart_

Yet you have to smile, because she couldn't possibly be_ any fucking cuter_, and when she realizes just how very cognizant you are of the moment, a soft blush reaches her cheeks.

And you feel it again.

The perfect sway of a pendulum.

Like heightened awareness,

or

Convolution's intricate confusion,

or

The weightless force of falling.

And it's complicated enough to make your stomach twist inexplicably, yet simple enough for you to know you _just need to be closer_.

So you do. You give your heart this one small victory, sidestepping a few short feet into her vicinity, linking your left pinky finger with her right—but you can't tell if the cascading sensation in your stomach is derived from the drop of the elevator, or the Brittany Pierce elevated experience.

When a sound dings and the door opens, you drop your reach. Her face doesn't show any sign of disappointment though, and you can't tell if that bothers you or not.

As you begin walking to the cafeteria, she asks, "Did you get any good candy this Halloween, Dr. Lopez?"

You roll your eyes, but keep the smile on your face. "Well, someone gave me a whole candy bucket last week, and then kept bringing me Snickers. I think they're trying to make me fat," you nudge.

"Oh. Then I guess you don't want this Snickers?"

She holds the candy bar up before you, almost like some sort of temptation exercise.

A chuckle escapes your lips. "You're cruel."

"Oh, you love me," she pokes.

And your heart stops for a moment, because she put _you_ and _her_ and _love_ in the same sentence, and it's just not something you're ready to wrap your head around.

When you get to the cafeteria and notice the whole five people in the place, it's then that you remember the whole eleven o'clock at night thing, and that normal people have already eaten at this point. Normal of course excluding you.

"What are you getting?" she asks as you approach the refrigerated display case.

"Well, it's obviously going to be a tough decision between the stale blueberry muffin or that gourmet bag of peanut butter combos," you point.

She flashes a wry smile at your sarcasm, but gives you a stern look. "Really?"

You nod. "Honestly, I'm not that hungry. I had a pretty awesome breakfast." The candid comment earns you another blush.

She settles on a bottle of water and a bag of pretzels. You get the biggest cup of coffee available and skip the muffin for today, admittedly, still satiated from earlier. Together you find a table, and after a three minute argument about who is meant to sit in the booth and who is meant to sit on the other side, an unanimous vote determines you can both slide in next to each other.

And you're sure that for appearance purposes—the two of you sitting really close to one another in a basically empty cafeteria—one would get the impression that you're on a date, but it doesn't feel that way to you. There's no effort in this. You can't explain the likes of it, but you get the impression that even if you hadn't met that night in March, you'd still be here anyway, and she'd still be lighting up the room.

When the leather material of her costume rubs up against the leather of the booth, you laugh.

"Britt, that thing can't be comfortable. Didn't you bring a change of clothes?"

She finishes chewing a handful of pretzels before answering. "Actually, it's kind of comfy."

You press your lips together and roll your eyes playfully. "Okay, if you say so."

"What? It is!"

"Yeah, no..."

She furrows her brow at you and challenges your statement. "Are you calling me a liar?"

You feign hurt. "What, _me_? Never..."

"All of this coming from the worst liar ever."

"Oh, is that so?"

She nods. "Pretty much."

"Color me intrigued. Please, do explain." You prop your elbow up on the table and use your hand to cradle your jaw, watching her intently.

"I can't tell you all my secrets," she claims, smiling at you wickedly.

You scoff. "I think the secret's out, Britt."

"I mean, I can tell you that you usually stick to three different ways of lying."

You raise your brow.

"Like, the one you do the most is when you're just trying to be polite to someone because you have to—kinda like that lady who just rung us up. You told her it was no big deal that she took forever to give you back your change, when in reality, you were kind of ticked off."

"Fair enough. What about the other two?"

She bites her bottom lip slowly, taking her time. You try not to fixate on it. "Sometimes you avoid subjects so you don't have to talk about them, which is just another way of lying..."

You watch her in serious wonderment, trying to figure out when she became so astute in all things Lopez.

"And the third?" You inquire brazenly.

"Well..." Her body language signals that perhaps she isn't one hundred percent comfortable answering the question; yet, when your eyes meet hers and you don't allow your gaze to falter, it seems to bring a newfound confidence. "You have a habit of acting like things don't matter when they do," she finally says. "And you spend so much time trying to convince yourself that they don't, you don't even realize you're lying about it."

Your chest tightens and your throat goes dry. You swallow hard. "I do?"

She nods slowly.

"Like...how?"

Her tongue sweeps over her bottom lip again, and you're beginning to find it greatly distracting.

"Like..." Her voice trails as her smile becomes sinful. "Right now."

Your eyes challenge her curiously.

She shifts closer, completely unaffected by your gaze. The outside of her thigh touches yours, and in a hushed voice, "I bet you're telling yourself how much you don't want to kiss me."

A warm sensation flushes your neck, your arms, between your legs.

Her breath hits your neck, and you don't remember her being this close just a few seconds ago.

"Am I wrong?"

You don't say anything. You just flit your gaze from her eyes, to her lips, and back to her eyes. Your pulse quickens when she shifts just a little bit more, creating very little distance from her mouth to yours.

You shouldn't let her kiss you. You can't keep letting your body have these small victories when it could end up making everything so disastrous.

And just when her lips are about to hover over yours, she stops. Her hands still your shoulders, her eyes meet yours, and you just give a confounded stare in what feels like a half-drunken stupor.

"You know what they say, San," she whispers. "Admittance is the first step."


End file.
